UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT   LOS  ANGELES 


- 


WORKS  BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 


A  WALK  IN  HELLAS.    A  record  of  a  journey  on 
foot  in  rural  Greece.    Price,  32.50. 

AGAMEMNON'S  DAUGHTER.     A  Classic-Romantic 
Poem.    Price,  $1.50. 

DELPHIC  DAYS.    An  idyl  in  ancient  elegiac  stanza 
giving  the  modern  Greek  life  in  Delphic  scenery. 
Price,  f  1.00. 


SOON  TO  BE  PUBLISHED: 
GOETHE'S  FAUST.    A  commentary  on  the  literary 
Bibles. 


AN 


EPIGRAMMATIC  VOYAGE, 


BY 


DENTON  J.   SNIDER. 


y 

">;>        .:*•.*• 


BOSTON : 
TICKNOR  &  CO. 

1886. 


Copyright  Secured   1886, 

BY 
DENTON  J.   SNIDER. 


INSCRIPTION. 


Could  I  but  give  to  thee  half  the  delight  in  reading  these  verses 
That  I  feel  as  I  make  all  of  them  leap  to  my  beat, 

Surely  our  friendship  would  be  in  this  book  forever  recorded: 
Vain  is  the  hope,  thou  hast  too  many  other  good  books. 

Still  I  shall  write  it,  doing  my  best  to  win  two  persons, 
Namely,  myself  and  the  God;  hardly  the  third  I  expect. 


BOOK  FIRST. 


i  All  the  sea  was  a  smile  and  a  twinkle  was  every  wavelet, 

Cheerily  flew  the  white  sails  big  with  the  favoring  breeze, 

And  the  ship — the  new  ship — bore  away  to  the  goal   of   her 

[voyage, 

JW      While  the  steersman  in  sport  dallied  with  water  and  wind. 
Ci 
^  Merrily  under  the  touch  of  the  rudder  is  rocking  the  vessel, 

^      Rising  a  little  above,  falling  a  little  below, 
Q 

Eager  to  dance  on  the  sea  with  the  billow  and  romp  with  the 

[sunbeam, 
While  the  wares  in  the  hold  safely  to  haven  it  brings. 

Epigrams,  rise!  your  voyage  begins,  now  rock  with  the  vessel, 
One  with  the  sway  of  the  ship,  one  with  the  storm  and  the  calm. 

Be  ye  the  soul  at  the  helm,  and  be  ye  the  voice  of  the  helmsman, 
Be  ye  the  sea  and  the  land,  be  ye  the  present  and  past. 

317126 


-6— 


Festive  processions  of  Nereids  drawn  by  silver-reined  dolphins 
Wind  in  the  curls  of  the  sea,  curled  by  soft  Zephyrus'  hand; 

Shell-blowing  Tritons  rise  up  and   announce  the  approach  of 

[Poseidon, 

Then  sink  under  the  tide  to  the  hoarse  note  of  their  shells. 

Look  o'er  waves  to  the  line  of  yon  blue,  'tis  a  festival  splendid, 

Thousands  of  deities  hoar  float  round  Poseidon's  moist  car. 


Royal  Poseidon  has  harnessed  his  horses  to  his  blue  chariot, 
White  flow  their  manes  in  the  wind  as  they  are  racing  to  shore; 

On  the  surface  they  play  with  the  infinite  movement  of  water, 
Dancing  the  dance  of  the  sea  over  the  caroling  waves; 

But  as  soon  as  they  brush  underneath  on  the  strand's  pebbly 

[bottom, 

Broken  and  foaming  they  fall  headlong  against  the  hard  beach. 
Noble  thy  steeds,  O  Poseidon,  and  ever  the  more  to  be  valued, 
That  no  feet  they  possess  which  can  step  out  of  the  sea. 


7 


Roguish,  light-winged  epigram,  boldest  rover  of  Hellas, 

Robber  too  of  her  sweets,  lurking  on  all  of  her  ways,  n 

Little  pirate  on  poesy's  ocean,  now  I  have  caught  thee; 

Give  me  some  of  thy  spoils,  else  I  shall  crush  thee  to  prose. 


Wavelet,  why  dost  thou  seek  to  walk  out  of  thy  kingdom  of 

[waters, 

Where  is  woven  thy  robe  out  of  the  blue  of  the  skies? — 
Nereid,  why  art  thou  trying  to  leave  the  gay  train  of  Poseidon, 
Losing  thy  beautiful  form  at  the  first  touch  of  the  land? 

Thou  wilt  but  flounder  a  moment  among  the  rough  stones  of 

[the  shallows, 

Watery  film  are  thy  hands — they  cannot  cling  to  the  earth. 


8— 


The  God's  trident  hath  not  the  sole  power  to  rule  on  the  Ocean, 
A  fair  girdle  I  saw  fondled  and  kissed  by  the  waves; 

Each  of  them  sought  it,  lovingly  pressed  it  a  moment,  then  lost  it; 
Oh  the  great  hand  of  the  sea,  how  it  would  clutch  for  the  prize, 

Trying  to  hold  in  its  watery  grasp  that  girdle  inconstant, 

Which  through  its  fingers  would  slip — vain  was  the  task  of 

[a  God. 

Laughing  it  swayed  to  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  the  refluent  bosom 
Sprung  of  the  billowy  spume;  here  Aphrodite  once  rose, 

Here  now  she  rises  again  from  the  wave  and  is  free  of  her  sea- 

[robe, 

Stands  at  the  helm  of  the  ship,  changes  its  course  to  her  spell, 
Hanging  her  zone  on  the  rudder;  I  knew  it  as  soon  as  I  saw  it  ! 
Oft  have  I  seen  it  on  land,  plaything  of  Eros  her  boy. 


-9- 


1          i  M\        i  m      ' 

Eros,  I  warn  thee,  in  this  epigrammatical  voyage 

I  shall  not  take  thee  along,  put  up  thy  arrow  and  bow, 

Breathe  not  thy  flattering  breath  on  my  words,  stop  caressing 

[my  fancies, 

Thou  art  too  much  of  a  boy,  I  am  too  much  of  a  man. — 
But  the  sly  rogue  laughs  hundreds  of  sweet  little  epigrams  at  me, 

Hundreds  and  hundreds  they  fly,  filling  these  classical  skies. 
He  hath  stolen  my  weapon  poetic  and  turned  it  against  me, 

As  from  the  War-God  he  stole  buckler  and  spear  and  the 

[sword. 


Epigram,  tell  me,  gay  charmer,  the  source  of  thy  wonderful 

[genius; 

Turn  now  thy  verse  on  thyself,  thee  by  thy  light  let  me  see, 
And  in  a  distich  behold  thy  true  face  by  double  reflection ; 

Rise,  Hexameter,  there;  follow,  Pentameter,  too. — 
"Curious  voyager,  why  break  open  my  virginal  treasure? 

Touch  but  my  two  little  lips  making  a  mouth  for  thy  kiss." 


-10- 


Thou  must  behold  in  the  sea  not  merely  the  sea  but  the  image 
Mirrored  down  in  the  deep,  changing  to  forms  of  the  Gods; 

Water,  as  water,  can  be  but  insipid,  without  its  reflection — 
The  fair  Nymph  in  the  brook,  Nereid  under  the  sea. 

But  if  no  Deity  thou  canst  behold  in  the  rill  or  the  ocean, 
Peer  once  more  in  its  glass,  there  thou  beholdest  thy  face. 

10 

Epigrams  scatter  I  over  my  page  like  the  shells  of  the  mussel 
Which  on  the  bottom  lie  strown  under  the  rollicking  waves; 

Reader,  be  thou  my  pearl  diver,  valiantly  plunge  in  the  waters, 
Say  thy  prayers  first,  ere  thou  sink  down  to  the  depths; 

Then  will  a  beautiful  Nereid  lay  on  thy  finger  a  mussel ; 
Raise  it  and  crack  it;  perchance  hid  in  the  shell  is  a  pearl. 

1 1 

Water  I  saw  once  thrown  on  the  sunshine  in  order  to  quench  it; 
All  of  the  water  was  spilled,  but  the  bright  sunshine  remained. 


-11— 


12 


At  a  bright  coal  of  fire  a  wasp  grew  angry — he  stung  it ; 
His  fine  stinger  was  clipped,  but  the  coal  glowed  as  before. 


Whither,  O  whither,  my  frolicsome  boat,  is  the  flight  of  thy 

[swan-wings? 

Enter  this  yellowish  stream  pouring  down  into  the  sea, 

Pouring  down  into  the  world  through  the  gate  of  the  past  to 

[the  future; 

Narrow  thy  course   to  its  banks,  wind  with  its  turns  through 

[the  plain, 

Till  we  reach  in  our  voyage  the  highest  Olympian  sources, 
Sailing  on  sea  and  on  land,  sailing  up  mountain  and  sky. 


-12- 


H 

Swollen  and  angry  seems  always  the  brow  of  the  God  of  the 

[Tiber; 

He  has  a  right  to  his  wrath  if  we  but  think  of  his  lot; 
All  the  drains  of  the  earth  and  streams  that  wash  alien  countries 

Have  been  gathered  by  time  into  the  torrent  of  Rome, 
To  be  sent  down  her  channel  afar  to  the  limitless  ocean, 

Which  doth  lave  every  land  round  the  new  shores   of  the 

[world. 

Where  the  Greek  rivulet  pours  its  transparency  into  the  River, 
The  stern  frown  of  the  God  drops  into  dimples  of  joy; 

Thither  I  love  to  saunter  at  random  along  the  bright  border, 
Till  the  clear  waters  be  lost,  lost  in  the  turbulent  wave. 


Two  fair  daughters  were  born  to  the  ages,  Camena  and  Mtisa; 
Giantess  grew  up  the  one,  swaying  all  men  to  her  will, 

While  the  sweet  sister  has  always  remained  a  blooming  young 

[maiden, 

Sixteen  summers  she  has;  'tis  the  old  story  of  love. 


—13— 


i6 


Clear  are  thy  fountains,  O  Hellas,  as  out  of  the  hillsides  they 

[gurgle, 

And  in  a  crystalline  stream  flow  through  the  valley  and  mead ; 
Small  are  thy  rills,  oft  leaping  along  in  channels  of  marble, 

Often  reposing  in  grots  under  cool  arches  o'ermossed. 
Larger  than  they,  but  turbid,  is  ever  the  rush  of  the  Tiber; 

Give  me  to  drink  of  thy  brook,  small,  but  transparent   and 

[glad. 


Where  do  these  temples  look  with  their  faces  of  pillars  and  friezes  ? 
Where  do  these  monuments  point,  with  a  set  finger  of  stone? 

Where  do  these  statues  that  fill  with  their  forms  vast  halls  and 

[museums 

Turn  when  they  whisper  of  home,  hinting  of  destiny  rude? 
Where  but  to  Hellas,  the  happy  abode  of  their  freedom, 
Ere  the  Roman  had  come,  thralling  their  beauty  to  use. 


14- 


iS 


Rome,  I  have  fed  with  peaceful  delight  on  thy  honey  delicious, 
Daily  I  open  new  hives  built  in  the  ages  of  yore. 

Dead  long  ago  are  the  bees  that  gathered  these  stores  of  enjov- 

[ment, 

Heliconian  swarm,  reared  on  the  flowers  of  Greece. 

Still  the  sweet  structure  of  cunning  instinctive  is  not  as  they 

[left  it, 

Broken  and  scattered  and  stained  are  all  the  fragments  so  fair. 
Yet  each  fragment  distils  a  clear  liquid  infused  with  the  nectar 

That  long  since  down  to  earth  fell  from  the  tables  of  Gods. 
Roaming  amid  ancient  forests  of  pillars,  now  fallen  and  broken, 

E'en  from  the  fissures  and  breaks  I  have  been  catching  the 

[drops. 

What  delight  at  the  draught  went  throbbing  in  waves  through 

[the  body? 

Was  it  the  mildness  of  art,  or  the  mad  wildness  of  wine? 


—15 


Ah!  this  moment  there  follows  the  surfeit  of  gratification, 
Ruddy  enjoyment  now  palls,  Rome  can  no  longer  delight. 

List!  there  is  aught  in  these  marbles  that  hints  of  an  ancient 

[estrangement, 

A  low  sigh  may  be  heard  out  of  the  heart  of  the  stones : 
We  are  but  captives  taken  to  grace  a  conqueror's  triumph, 

Out  of  a  beautiful  world  which  we  had  made  for  ourselves; 
Here  our  lot  is  to  seem  and  to  serve  in  the  house  of  a  master, 

O  for  our  Hellas  once  more;  O  for  our  freedom  and  home. 


19 


Art  must  be  a  true  worship  of  Gods,  not  merely  enjoyment, 
(       Goddess  is  the  high  Muse,  scorns  to  be  used  for  desire; 
I  Dizened  with  jewels  of  strangers,  her  honor  at  once  is  suspected, 

Clothed  she  must  be  in  the  robe  which  she,  a  Goddess,  hath 

[wove. 


20 


Speak,  O  Quirites,  and  tell  me,  ye  Caesars,  your  fall,  your  great 

[downfall, 

When  into  ruin  the  world  sank  with  the  Gods  in  the  crash; 
Read  me  your  doom,  ye  Senators,  Censors  and  great  Imperators, 
Kings  in  your  palaces  once,  some  of  you  Gods  in  your  fanes; 

What  did  ye  do,  maimed  rows  of  sad  marble,  to  call  up  this 

[judgment? 

Misery  broods  in  your  pomp,  beggary  breeds  in  your  homes. 
But  what  saddens  me  more  than  all  the  long  pang  of  your  city, 

Hellas,  the  fair,  I  behold  lying  in  rags  on  the  street; 
Her  I  now  see  as  the  beautiful  slave  that  served  in  the  temple 

Built  by  the  conqueror  Rome,  with  all  the  peoples  of  earth; 
Free  no  longer  and  pure,  she  lost  her  heavenly  figure, 

Though  she  was  decked  with  the  wealth  ta'en  from  the  spoils 

[of  a  world. 

Forms  and  abodes  of  the  Gods,  she,  a  slave,  no  longer  created, 
Once  a  Goddess  herself,  sprung  of  Olympian  seed. 


-17 


21 


I  am  everything  ancient  and  modern  at  Rome,  the  eternal! 

Here  on  this  spot  where  is  all,  how  can  I  help  being  all — 
Past  and  future,  the  high  and  the  low,  the  good  and  the  bad,  too? 

Lawgiver  Roman  I  come  weighing  the  law  of  the  world; 
Conqueror  lordly  of  Britain  and  Gaul,  I  triumph  in  wine-shops; 

Orator  ancient  at  times,  thunder  I  Cicero's  phrase. 
But  I  am  now  the  new  schoolmaster,  old  Latin  poets  construing 

Once  again  in  my  school ;  ye  are  my  schoolboys,  O  friends. 
Come,  gay  Horace  with  amorous  Ovid,  Catullus,  Propertius, 

All  of  your  verse  I  shall  turn  into  plain  English  at  once: 
"Captive  Greece  was  the  beautiful  mistress  kept  by  Quirinus, 

Throned  she  lay  in  his  heart,  spurned  from  his  morals  and  law ; 

Thou  wilt  know  the  result — she  debauched  both  his  heart  and 

[his  morals, 

While  with  her  honor's  loss,  lost  was  her  beauty  divine." 


-18- 


22 


Conscript  Fathers  of  Rome  and  of  Time,  a  speech  in  your  Senate, 
One  short  speech — that  is  all — now  I  am  ready  to  make — 

Not  the  plentiful  silvery  stream  of  the  Orator  Roman, 

But  brief  barbarous  words  shouting  the  cry  of  these  stones: 

Not  enough,  O  Rome,  to  enslave  the  whole  world  to  thy  surfeit — 
Thou  hast  enslaved  the  Gods,  slave  thou  art  now  to  thyself. 


23 

Now  I  must  leave  thee,  O  Rome;  there  is  a  loud  clock  in  the  city, 
Tolling  the  limit  of  time  when  the  sad  guest  must  depart; 

Louder  still  I  can  hear  the  stroke  of  the  clock  in  my  bosom, 
Smiting  with  hammer  of  steel :  now  I  must  leave  thee,  O  Rome. 


—19- 


24 

As  thy  virtue,  O  Latium,  is  mad,  so  thy  pleasure  is  beastly ; 

Hellas  enjoys  and  refrains  sweetly  together  in  one. 
Thou  art,  O  Roman,  either  too  good  or  too  bad  for  my  journey; 

Thou,  O  Greek  art  a  man,  come,  let  me  take  thee  along. 


25 

Looking   before   me   I  see  happy  banks  in  the  skies    built  of 

[sunshine, 

Looking  behind  me  I  feel  clouds  in  mine  eyes  full  of  rain; 
Why  are  the  heavens  there  full  of  joy,  and  here  full  of  sorrow? 
Rome  I  am  leaving  behind,  Athens  is  lying  before. 


20— 


26 


Now,  O  Rome,  is  my  path  where  point  thy  fingers  of  marble, 

Where  thy  speaking  stones  say  is  the  land  of  their  birth; 
Where  is  the  home  of  the  forms  that  uphold  thy  arches  triumphal, 

Home  of  the  urns  of  thv  dead,  wreathed  with  fresh  flowers 

[of  life. 

'Tis  the  secret  command  of  thy  heart,  O  city  imperial, 
Now  the  fountain  to  find  whence  is  derived  the  stream. 


27 


Swinging  on  high  between  two  visions  seemeth  my  journey, 
As  the  pendulum  swings  back  from  a  tick  to  a  tick; 

And  on  the  clock  of  the  world  I  am  marking  the  weightiest 

[moments, 

As  I  sweep  to  and  fro  through  the  dead  ages  embalmed. 

Substance    fades  to  a  dream,  but  the  dream    soon    hardens  to 

[substance, 

Huge  Coliseum  recedes,  Parthenon  rises  to  view. 


-21- 


Epigram,  speed  thee,  be  a  little  more  epigrammatic, 
Tn  but  a  distich's  sweet. kiss  press  me  thy  two  tiny  lips. 


Modesty,  sweetest  of  maidens,  is  not  aware  she  is  modest; 
When  she  knoweth  herself,  then  she  is  never  herself. 

3° 

Modesty's  speech  is  always  a  silence  that  tells  she  is  modest; 
Never  declaring  her  own,  hath  she  the  sweetest  of  praise. 


Never  can  Modesty,  e'en  in  a  dream,  proclaim  her  own  nature; 
With  but  the  word  she  is  lost,  fled  at  the  sound  of  her  voice. 


—22— 


32 

As  I  passed  underneath,  there  fell  the  gray  leaf  of  the  Olive, 
Pricked  with  a  needle  of  frost,  'twas  the  first  leaf  of  the  fall; 

Gently  it  lodged  in  my  hair,  and  found  too  a  frosted  companion, 
Which  had  there  stealthily  crept,  stealing  along  with  the  vears. 

There  lay  the  leaf,  and  it  atroked  me  as  if  the  soft   hand  of 

[Minerv-a, 

Her  sweet  benison  gave  out  of  her  favorite  tree. 


33 

Why  has  the  frolicsome  Olive  been  called  the  tree  of  sage  Pallas? 

See  the  green  branches  of  youth  gleam  with  the  silver  of  age, 
Poesy's  juvenile  buoyancy  blent  with  grave  wisdom's  reflection: 

On  each  leaflet  behold  choruses  danced  to  the  sun. 
Then   look  up  at  the  fruit  on  the  twigs  suspended  by  handfuls. 

Such  was  the  Goddess'  gift;  take  it,  'tis  thine,  if  thou  canst. 


—23— 


34 

Under  the  Olives  I  wander,  silvery  green  is  the  sparkle, 

Dancing  about  on  the  leaves  with  the  new  rays  of  the  sun ; 
Fruit  is  just  turning  dark  to  mature  along  with  the  season, 

While  the  skipping  gay  hours  diadems  weave  on  the  hills. 
Crude  and  green  on  the  branches  is  hanging  still  many  a  berry 

But  this  sun  in  the  south  quickly  will  ripen  them  all. 
Long  I  loiter  delighted,  though  always  I  sigh  for  the  harvest, 

As  I  look  up  at  the  limbs  laden  with  layers  of  fruit. 

Tarry  until  the  green  leaf  of  the  tree-top  is  struck  by  the  hoar 
frost, 

Not  an  olive  matures  till  it  be  smitten  by  fate. 


35 

A  slight  frost  often  touches  before  the  harvest  will  ripen. 

The  crude  growth  of  the  tree,  softens  to  mildness  and  strength ; 

From  the  foliage  words  of  the  Goddess  are  silently  dropping, 
"Gather  the  fruit,  O  man;  hasten,  thy  harvest  has  come." 


—24— 


I  can  tell  you  a  secret  about  the  ascent  of  this  mountain; 

If  from  below  you  look  up,  why,  it  appears  but  one  top 
Which  you  can  easily  reach,  but  it  is  a  long  series  of  summits, 

Each  one  struggling  above  with  pleasant  valleys  between. 

When  you  have  reached  one  summit  there  breaks  overhead  yet 

[another; 

Thus  you  laboriously  climb,  viewing  a  height  ever  new. 
Loiter,  I  pray,  at  times  in  the  vales,  in  the  folds  of  the  mountain, 
There  the  flowers  will  blodm,  there  too  the  shepherd  will  pipe. 


-25- 


37 

Crystalline  folds,  as  they  lie  on  the  form  of  the  Goddess,  thou 

[knowest, 

They  can  be  seen  on  this  mount  resting  serene  in  the  sun; 
What  are  the  dingles  and  dells  that  roll  in  millions  of  wavelets 
Down  the  sides  of  the  slope,  but  the  mild  flow  of  the  folds? 


33 

What  a  wild  symphony  heard  I  to-day  on  the  top  of  the  mountain ! 
Foremost  came  the  small  bee  piping  soprano  above, 

Then  the  big  bumble  bee  slowly  was  droning  his  note,  the  deep 

[basso, 

While  the  fly  on  his  flute  played  a  soft  alto  between. 

Thousands  of  fiddlers  were  daintily  touching  the  strings  of  their 

[fiddles, 

Large  and  little  were  there,  tuned  to  the  keynote  of  clime. 

All  were  at  work  on  the  flowers,  not  thinking  they  made  any 

[music, 

Still  their  work  ever  moved  to  the  sweet  music  they  made. 


-26— 

39 

Stop  and  listen!  here  is  the  mead  and  there  is  the  mountain; 
Soft  tones  echo  from  both  if  thou  wilt  hear  them  alone; 

Give  up  thy  breath  for  a  moment!  catch  the  new  voice  of  all 

[nature! 

Thou  must  not  think  of  thyself,  if  thou  wilt  hear  what  it  says. 

One  deep  note  it  becomes  now,  swelling  above  the  whole  land- 

[scape, 

But  thou  wilt  lose  it  at  once,  if  to  repeat  it  thou  seek. 


40 

Loftily  over  the  brow  of  the  mountain  is  hanging  a  ruin, 
Ready  to  tumble  beneath,  seeming  to  sink  in  itself; 

Once  it  was  peopled  with  monks, but  now  it  is  held  by  the  Dryads, 
Who  have  re-taken  their  home,  whence  they  were  driven  of  old. 

Now  I  can  enter  the  cloister,  a  member  become  of  their  order; 

Bring  me  a  hair  skin  of  moss,  wreathe  me  a  cowl  of  green 

[leaves, 

Clothe  me,  O    Nymphs,   in   embraces,  hang   on    my  lips  your 

[caresses, 


-27- 


That  by  your  rites  I  become  here  in  my  cell  a  good  monk. 

How  I  can  sing  in  these  ruins — let  them  fall  inside  and  outside; 

• 
On  this  fresh  cloistered  moss  how  I  can  sleep — let  it  grow. 

41 

• 
A  dark  ghost  was  flitting  alone  through  the  walls  of  the  cloister, 

Mid  the  ruins  it  sped,  vanishing  soon  into  mist; 

What  could  it  be?  The  last  monk.     The  fountain  there  laughed 

[more  clearly 

As  the  Nymphs  of  the  stream  saw  the  lone  specter  depart.  - 

42 

Here  I  rest  in  the  far-glancing,  sun-roofed  temple  of  Phoebus, 
Spreading  .over  my  head  through  to  the  ends  of  the  world; 

Far  below  in  the  vale  is  the.  olive-green  floor  of  the  tree-tops. 
Pillars  are  mountains  of  stone  holding  the  golden  round  roof, 

Such  is  my  Pantheon  now,  where  all  of  the  Gods  are  assembled. 
Holding  a  festival  free,  in  an  Hellenic  high  strain. 


-•28 


43 


With  his  fingers  of  gold  now  softly  Apollo  is  feeling 

Over  the  breasts  of  the  hills,  drowsy  as  yet  in  the  dawn ; 

Like  a  fond  waking  husband  he  turns  with  a  face  full  of  splendor, 
To  his  sweet  spouse,  the  earth,  golden  caresses  to  reach. 

There  she  is  lying  with  bosom  burst  out  in  the  glow  of  his 

glances, 

She  with  a  smile  half  asleep,  gives  the  response  to  his  touch. 


44 


Finest  droplet  of  sweetness  is  sipped  from  the  earth   by    the 

[flower, 

On  the  flower  alights,  sipping  its  treasure,  the  bee; 
From  the  stores  of  the  bee  sips  man,  of  sippers  the  highest, 

All  the  sweetness  of  earth  he  must  distil  into  life. 
Soil  and  flower  and  bee  are  a  channel  for  fountains  of  nectar 

Ready  to  gush  in  thy  mouth;  touch  now  thy  lips  to  the  stream. 


—29— 


45 

Here  is  the  flower,  the  holder  of  honey,  transmute  it  to  verses; 

Six  white  leaves  form  a  star,  looking  above  at  the  stars, 
Often  diverse  is  the  size,  and  varied  is  often  the  color, 

Purple  at  times  it  becomes,  vanishing  faintly  to  blue. 
Inside  golden  it  is,  where  shines  too  the  bees'  sweet  treasure; 

Pluck  it  up  from  the  ground,  plant  it  anew  in  thy  soil. 


46 

Small  is  the  mountain,  but  of   its  sweets  thou  canst  gather  a 

[mouthful, 

Or  a  hiveful  perchance,  if  thou  art  truly  a  bee. 


A  stray  bird  came  to  Delphi   and  pecked  at  the  grapes  of  the 

[vineyard, 

Drunken  with  juice  he  began  strangely  to  sing  a  new  song. 


-30— 

48 

Epigrams  always  arc  hanging  over  my  walks  in  long  clusters, 
Attir  grapes  they  are,  full  of  the  juice  of  the  clime; 

On  the  path  of  my  journey  I  roam  through  antique  vine-yards, 
Many  a  bunch  1  receive  plucked  by  the  grower's  own  hand. 

All  are  not  equally  good  in  the  bunch,  some  are  small,  some  are 

[green  still, 

Pick  them  off  one  by  one  noting  their  various  worth. 

Every  grape    must    be  crushed   with    a    thought,  not    stupidly 

[swallowed, 

If  thou  wilt  feel  the  light  glow  lit  in  the  grape  by  the  God. 


49 

Drops  that  were  craftily  hid  in  the  clusters  now  gather  in  gushes, 
Break  from  within  the  soft  pulp  out  of  the  heart  of  the  grape; 

Long  has  the  droplet  been  ripening  there  in  the  joy  of  the  sun- 

[shine, 

Earth,  air,  heaven  above,  all  have  given  their  aid; 

And  the  old  vine-dresser  many  a  year  has   been  training   the 

[branches, 

Just  for  thy  rapture  to-day;  here  thou  hast  all  of  their  gifts. 


—31— 

5° 

Wouldst  thou  know  the  sweetest,  sublimest  lesson  of  Nature, 

What  the  Poet  repeats  in  the  keen  flash  of  his  words, 
What  divinity  utters  gliding  a-down  from  Olympus, 

What,  too,  philosophy  says  in  the  deep  cast  of  her  brow? 
This  it  is:  from  the  soil  sips  each  little  mouth  of  the  rootlet, 

From  the  rootlet  sips  uninterrupted  the  grape, 
And  from  the  grape  sips  man  the  immortal,  the  top  of  creation, 

Dowered  with  reason  divine,  like  in  his  form  to  a  God. 
Rootlets  are  tipplers,  intoxicated  are  all  of  the  clusters, 

Bacchanals  too  are  the  vines,  crooked  and  reeling  around. 
See  ihem  rise  from  the  earth  to  a  deity,  wreathing  his  body,   - 

Gently  diffusing  their  juice;  note  thy  example,  O  man. 

51 

The  coy  blink  of  this  virginal  wine  is  my  treasure  forever, 
Maiden  sincere  as  the  word  which  she  inspireth  in  hearts; 

Let  me  now  touch,  ere  Time  slip  away,  my  lips  to  the  virgin, 
Who  doth  smite  in  the  sflass  brimming  immaculate  love. 


-32— 


Mortal  the  eye  is  and  so  must  remain,  still  it  sees  things  immortal ; 

High  Bacchic  pomp  it  beholds  in  but  a  cup  of  the  wine; 
And  in  each  drop  uplifted  to  lips  from  the  fount  of  Castalia, 

Bathers  divine  it  can  see  sporting  white  limbs  in  a  stream. 

53 

One,  O  Greek,  was  thine  eye  and  thy  soul,  in  a  harmony  splendid 
Both  together  were  blent  that  they  no  parting  allowed; 

Sight  was  insight  to  thee,  and  thought  a  transpicuous  image, 
Thou  didst  see  with  thy  soul,  soul  too  beheld  with  thy  glance; 

In  thine  eye  as  a  mirror  were  seen  all  the  colors  of  nature, 
Calmly  reflecting  therein  depths  that. belong  to  the  soul. 

54 

Poesy  cannot  behold  her  own  flight  to  poetical  regions, 

When  she  looks  back  at  her  wings,  then  is  she  fallen  to  earth; 

She  must  soar  to  the  goal  in  her  rapture,  not  think  she  is  soaring, 
Fair  she  also  must  be,  O  let  her  not  think  she  is  fair. 


-33— 


55 

Why  so  modest,  my  dear  little  epigram,  poesy's  sweet-heart? 

I  would  thy  lover  be  now,  lisp  me  thy  tenderest  word. — 
Voyager,  I  cannot  say  I  am  modest,  because  I  am  modest, 

If  I  could  tell  whuit  I  am,  then  thou  wouldst  love  me  no  more. 


56 

Fond  epigrammatist,  thou  art  my  lover,  be  not  my  betrayer; 

Leave  me  my  virginal  lure,  else  thou  wilt  spurn  me  thyself, 
Seek  not  my  maidenly  mystery  wooing  the  charm  of  thy  verses, 

Else  not  a  line,  not  a  word  can  I  impress  on  thy  lips. 


.     57 

Placid  thy  speech,  O  Homer,  transparent  it  runs  like  the  brooklet, 
Under  the  surface  we  sec  Nymphs  in  the  fount  of  thy  words, 

Freely  disporting  their  forms,  and  revealing  divinest  perfections; 
Now  with  the  brooklet  behold  always  the  Nymph  underneath. 


-34- 


To  a  nest  of  bowls  I  am  fain  to  liken  these  poems, 

Outside  and  inside  are  bowls,  each  can  be  seen  in  the  one; 

And  y«et  each  is  itself  altogether,  cannot  be  another, 

Thou  must  the  inside  discern,  if  thou  the  outside*  wilt  know. 

59 

/ 

Hercules  had  two  fathers,  a  mortal  and  an  immortal, 

So  had  Theseus  bold,  Attica's  pride  and  defense; 
So  has  every  Hero  filled  with  mighty  endeavor, 

He  is  the  child  of  some  God  stealthily  gliding  to  earth. 

60 

Why  is  the  father  of  Heroes  often  the  weakest  of  mortals? 

Why  so  seldom  the  sons  have  the  endowment  divine? 
Some  invisible  strand  winds  through  our  domestic  relation, 

Which  reaching  up  to  £he  Gods,  draws  a  Promethean  spark. 
Two  are  the  households  of  man  and  his  kindship  ever  is  double, 

To  an  Olympian  hearth,  though  here  below,  he  belongs. 


-35— 


6i 


Shepherdess,  hear  me,  now  is  the  spring  and  thou  art  the  flower, 
Hoary  old  Time  with  his  scythe  tarries  to  look  at  thy  bloom ; 

I  can  see  him  standing  at  rest  before  the  young  harvest, 
What  a  glow  in  his  face!  ardor  is  burning  his  veins. 

Blame  him  not,  he  grows  young  in  thy  youth,  turns  red  in  thy 

[rose-bud; 

Not  a  word  thou  hast  said,  still  thy  sweet  whisper  is  heard. 

Now  I  too  have    to  yield,  and    answer   thy    bloom   with    my 

[blossom, 

Come,  the  whole  world  is  a  flower  which  we  are  plucking 

[just  now. 


—86— 


62 

Wake  not  love  in  these  epigrams,  be  a  little  more  careful, 

Leave  thy  caresses,  O  Muse,  which  thou  dost  drop  in  my  lines, 

Well  thou   knowest  my  weakness,  and  laughest  a  verse  at  my 

[purpose; 

A  suspicion  I  have  that  thou  wilt  waylay  my  words, 
Catching  them  up  from  my  lips  before  I  can  train  them  to  duty; 
In  these  epigrams,  Muse,  wake  not  my  love  with  thy  kiss. 

6,3 

Art  thou  sick?     Then  go  out  and  list  to  the  little  musicians, 
That  by  the  hundreds  now  pipe  under  the  half-bursted  buds; 

Hark  to  the  strain!  they  turn  each  tree-top  into  a  fountain 
Welling  melodious  jets  high  in  the  air  overhead. 

Find    out    what  they  are  singing  as  they   now   greet  (he   new 

|  spring-lime. 

That  will  heal  thee,  my  friend;  it  i-.  great    Nature's  first  balm. 


—37— 


64 


This  sweet  love,  is  the  fairest  moment  of  spring,  this  moment; 
Soon  it  will  pass  on  its  way;  quick,  let  us  go  to  the  fields, 

Where  it  will  tarry   the  longest   around  the  new  tops    of  the 

[woodland, 

Over  the  roll  of  the  hills  vanishing  into  the  haze. 
All  the   year  has  suddenly  bloomed  in  this  day, -in  this  minute, 

The  whole  world  is  a  flower,  fragrantly  blowing  just  now. 
Every  rise  of  the  sun  hath  seemed  in  some  joy  to  look  forward, 

This  is  the  moment  ii  saw  far  in  the  glow  of  its  eye. 
All  the  days  of  the  year  have  been  climbing  above  to  this  summit, 

Now  each  tick  of  the  clock  sadly  must  knell  their  decline. 

But  thy  journey  of    life    has  now    touched    its   most  beautiful 

[moment, 

Hold  it  fast  in  thy  heart — that  is  thy  conquest  of  Time. 


317126 


BOOK    SECOND. 


-39- 


/    Voyage  you  call  it:  But  tell  me  where  are  the  sea  and  the  vessel? 
\       Under  my  feet  is  no  plank,  points  of  the  compass  are  lost. 

!  Epigrams,  friend,  are  the  whole  of  my  craft,  now  a  ship,  now 

[a  shallop, 

Thoughts  are  the  timbers  inlaid,  fancies  the  fluttering  sails, 
And  I  float  my  epigrammatical  fleet  on  an  ocean, 

Laughingly  yielding  its  wave  to  the  soft  breath  of  the  Gods. 


—40— 


Reader,  I  deem  thou  hast  quit  me  thy  voyager  epigrammatic, 
Fallen  perchance  by  the  way,  quite  overcome  by  fatigue; 

Still  I  often  shall  hopefully  call  thee  as  if  thou  wert  present, 
With  me  a  friend  I  must  think,  though  there  be  really  none. 


On  the  strand  overborne  by  the  frown  of  high  Posilupo, 
Stood  I  and  looked  to  the  sea  praying  Poseidon  to  rise; 
Soon  came  the  God  at  my  call  in  his  chariot  over  the  surface, 

Through  the  bright  waves  of  the  sea  cutting  a  track  of  quick 

[light. 

But  as  he  neared  the  low  shore  and  touched  the  firm  sand  of  the 

[shallows, 

Horses  and  chariot  and  God  broke  into  foam  at  mv  feet. 


—4-1 


In  the  soft  arms  of  Poseidon  is  the  dear  home  of  the  sea-nymphs; 
Do  not  decoy  them  away  from  their  abode  to  the  land ; 

Dost  thou  not  see  that  no  feet  they  possess  to  rise  up  from  the 

[waters? 

Watch  them  far  out  in  the  main,  sporting  bright  shapes  in  the 

[sun. 


Naples,  true  is  thy  title  to-day,  thou  art  still  the  new  city, 

Old  thou  never  hast  grown,  though  on  thy  head  lie  the  years 

By  the  thousand.  Neapolis,  Grecian  youth  is  thy  dower, 

Which  the  old  Gods  to  thee  left  in  their  retreat  from  the  world. 

6 

On  a  hill  whose  summit  looks  over  the  sea,  and  whose  forehead 

With -fresh   laurels  is  wreathed,  flapping  their  leaves  to  the 

[breeze, 

Is  embalmed  the  Latin  Bee  mid  the  bloom  of  his  flowers, 

Whence  such  sweetness  he  sucked  that  we  must  seek  him  to-day. 


-42 


Here  are  the  vines  introduced  long  ago  from  the  vineland  of 

[Hellas, 

Here  amid  their  embrace  Virgil  of  Rome  lies  entombed, 
Who  with  Italian  winepress  extracted  their  delicate  juices; 
May  he  forever  repose  in  the  Greek  fragance  inurned! 

8 

Grapes  of   sweet  flavor  I  tested  to-day  from  the  Mantuan  vine- 

[yard, 

Which  transplanted  had  been  from  their  Hellenic  abode; 

Sweet  were  the  Mantuan  grapes,  yet  sweeter  the  thought  of  that 

[vineyard 

Whence  they   were  taken  of  old,  whither  the  moments  all 

[throng. 


—43— 


Watch  the  gay  festival  pouring  a  torrent  of  joy  down  the  Corso; 

Hark!  what  thunder  is  that  rumbling  beyond  the  clear  sky! 
Flower-girls,  lazaroni,  dancers,  pulcinelli — 

Stop !  did  the  earth  underneath  quake  to  the  beat  of  your  feet  ? — 
Pleasure's  happiest  poor-house,  stronghold  of  King  Macaroni — 

See!  a  red  flash  in  the  sky  glares  on  the  city  and  land; 
Look  off  yonder,  a  dark  bloody  hand  with  thousands  of  fingers 

Reaches  up  from  a  peak,  clutching  at  Gods  in  the  skies. 
There  stretched  over  this  city  now  full  of  the  joy  of  existence, 

Hovers  destiny's  hand,  threatens  as  in  the  old  world. 


10 


The  Neapolitan  butterfly  danced  on  the  heights  of  St.  Elmo, 

Spreading  bright  wings  to  the  sun,  drawing  the  look  by  its 

[tints; 

When  it  lit  on  a  flower,  I  slipped  up  slyly  to  catch  it, 

But  from  my  fingers  it  flew  ere  they  cor.ld  close  on  its  wings. 


-44- 


What  a  story  is  read  to  thee  daily,  O  beautiful  Naples! 

'Tis  the  Pompeian  tale  lying  just  under  thine  eye, 
Written  in  ruins  whose  letters  are  lines  of  tenantless  houses, 

Alphabet  mighty  of  Fate  carved  on  this  hill  long  ago. 
""Tis  the  old  story  of  Hellas,  the  story  prophetic  of  Nature, 

Thy  new  story  may  lie  writ  in  this  ruin,  beware. 

12 

Language  of  Destiny,  lettered  in  furious  flames  on  this  mountain, 
Was  not  then  taught  in  the  school,  still  it  is  hardly  taught  there. 

Reader,  if  not  yet  asleep  in  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  this  voyage, 
Open  thv  senses  afresh,  now  we  are  going  to  spell; 

Wake!  'tis  the  hour  to  learn  with  me  an  alphabetical  lesson 
In  this  wonderful  book ;  here  is  the  Pompeian  school. 


-15- 


Ages  on  ages  were  working  in  Rome  the  mighty  destruction, 

Which  Pompeii  befell  in  but  a  moment  of  Time; 
Rome,  too,  had  her  Vesuvius  gathering  fire  and  forces, 

Through  her  duration  is  slrown  what  is  here  touched  to  a  point, 
There  it  is  written  in  large,  and  here  it  is  written  in  little, 

In  the  fate  of  this  town  might  she  have  read  her  own  fate. 
But  she  could  not  decipher  the  words  of  the  flaming  inscription, 

Which  revealed  her  own  deeds  turned  into  symbols  of  fire. 


O  Pompeii,  what  shall  we  say  to  thee  rising  from  ashes 

With  thv  body  scarce  seared,  oft  with  the  hue  on  thy  cheek? 

Thou  hast  ages  on  ages  of  death  entombed  in  thy  features, 
Still  to-day  thou  art  up,  in  thy  old  scat  on  the  hill. 

Many  believe  hereafter  will  be  resurrection  of  body, 

Hut  of  the  old  buried  town,  look,  resurrection  has  come. 


—46 


'5 

Wander  at  random  through  vacant  doors  and  paths  of  the  city, 
Lose  thyself  in  the  net  woven  of  houses  and  streets, 

Till  thy  brain  becomes  Pompeii  alive  in  its  mazes; 

Dreams  have  fled  out  the  way,  now  thou  art  in  the  old  world. 


16 


From  these  stones  worn  deep  by  the  tread  of  old  generations 
Premonitions  arise  strangely  suggesting  our  lot; 

Man  is  mixed  of  a  moment  and  of  eternal  duration, 

So  say  thousands  of  feet  stamping  their  trace  in  the  rock. 


'7 

Here  you  enter  the  Pompeian  wineshop  and  ask  for  refreshment, 
Quickly  the  waiter  responds,  dips  with  a  long-handled  cup 

Through  the  small  neck  of  this  wine-jar  piercing  the  slab  of  the 

[counter; 

Cool  and  pure  is  the  bowl,  crown  it  again  with  a  wreath. 


-47  - 


iS 


This  is    the  temple  of    Venus    where  once  she  was  fervently 

[worshipped, 

Beauty  in  figure  divine  as  she  arose  from  the  sea; 
Fain  would  I  too  be  a  worshiper,  enter  her  temple  this  morning, 
Move  mid  her  pillared  grove  to  the  fair  idol  within. 

19 

As  we  pass  down  the  street,  there  opens  the  door  of  a  mansion; 

Through  its  interior  peep,  swiftly  the  vision  is  borne 
On  the  flight  of  the  long  colonnades  to  the  green  of  the  garden, 

Whither  the  colums  are  winged,  but  can  not  fly  to  the  goal. 
Whose  can  it  be?     Thy  dwelling,  O  Pansa;  pardon  intruders; 

Long  thou  art  absent  from  home;  now  it  is  ours,  here  we  are. 


-48 


When   I  beheld   thee,  Medeia,   I   seemed   to   behold  the  Greek 

[woman 

Painted  by  artist  of  old  from  a  strong  face  in  his  heart; 
Her  I  now  seek  for  in  body,  until  1   shall  find  the  same  features 

And  imprint  them  within  —  image  remains  not  a  shade. 
This  is  the  fruit  of  the  journey:  to  see  in  the  mirror  Hellenic 

What  the  world  once  was,  what  is  now  fairest  and  best. 


21 

O  the  maiden  Hellenic,  each  house  in  the  town  hath  her  picture! 
Soon  she  comes  out  of  the  door,  tripping  the  pavement  along. 

Softly  the  waves  of  her  garment  roll  down  all  the  lines  of  her 

[body, 

And  the  rich  crown  of  her  hair  is  by  the  Graces  entwined. 

Out    of    the  folds  of   her  robe  there    rises   sweet    fragance    of 

[movement, 

As  the  bare  forearm  she  lifts  daintily  from  the  white  plies. 
What  can  you  do  now  but  follow  ?   What  I  pray  are  you  here  for? 
At  the  turn  of  some  street,  quick,  you  may  glance  in  her  face. 


—49- 


22 


O  fair  boy,  around  this  urn  where  thy  ashes  are  resting, 
Nymphs  are  dancing  in  glee  to  the  mad  flute  of  the  Faun; 

Joyous  was  ever  thv  life,  each  day  was  the  bloom  of  a  banquet, 
Through  this  gate  of  the  tomb  on  thou  dost  leap  with  a  laugh. 

Still  with  this  rout  of  merry  musicians  and  dancers  around  thee. 
E'en  old  Hades  will  smile,  all  his  dark  grot  will  be  lit. 


This  is  the  Pompeian  school-house  where  anciently  swayed  a 

[grim  master, 

Open  still  is  the  school,  enter  and  study  its  book. 

Scholars  have  come  and  are  gone,  to-day  they  are  coming  and 

[going, 

Pedagogue  too  can  be  seen,  if  thou  wilt  glance  at  thy  side. 

What  is  here  taught  do  you  ask?   The  reading  and  writing  of 

[ruin; 

But  what  is  learnt  from  old  bricks?  Epigrams,  spell  him  the 

[word. 


—50— 

24 

Many  an  image  doth  lie  in  thy  ashen  embrace,  Pompeii  ; 

Statues  repose  there  unviewed,  till  they  awake  in  the  sun; 
Ancient  legendf  writ  on  thy  walls,  is  born  into  color, 

Gems  lie  there  in  the  earth,  cut  with  the  lines  of  a  Grace. 
But  of  all  of  the  images  that  lie  hid  in  thy  bosom, 

Greatest  b     far  is  thself  —  Destin's  imae  art  thou. 


Destiny's  workings  within  our  world  thou  deeply  dost  image, 
We  thy  affliction  lament,  though  we  are  blessed  by  thy  pain; 

For  the  Gods  have  done  thee  a  wrong,  but  mankind  a  blessing, 
Suffering  smiteth  the  part  that  the  great  whole  may  be  saved. 

26 

Destiny  smiteth  the  one  with  her  scepter,  that  all  be  forever; 

Slayeth  this  moment  of  Time,  that  so  Eternity  be; 
Evil  she  is  to  the  moment,  but  to  eternity  holy; 

Wrecked  she  Pompeii  then,  hence  thou  beholdest  it  now. 


—51— 


Who  is  the  giant  now  under  Vesuvius  near  merry  Naples? 

Dead  he  is  not  but  he  breathes  heavily  as  in  a  dream. 
What  is  he  dreaming?  Dangerous  visions  of  fire  and  sulphur, 

As  in  some  passion  he  rolls,  turning  from  this  side  to  that. 
Dead  he  is  not,  but  alive,  though  just  at  this  moment  he  sleepeth; 

What  will  he  do  when  he  wakes?  See  the  scarred  face  of  the 

[molmt. 


28 


O  Vesuvius,  thy  torn  lips  loudly  speak  a  new  language, 

Hot  are  thy  thunderous  words,  breaking  out  deep  from  thy 

[heart, 

Orator  ancient,  red  is  the  stream  of  thy  speech  to  thy  people, 
Dark  and  fateful  thy  breath  furiously  winds  to  the  Gods. 

What    art   thou    saying,    O    Titan?    Thy    mighty    foreboding 

[interpret? 

Aught  there  is  underneath  wrecking  the  world  overhead. 


—52- 


Hesiod,  seeing  Vesuvius  we  have  to  see  with  thy  vision, 
And  to  think  with  thy  thought  all  this  upheaval  of  fire; 

'Tis  thy  song  of  the  battle  between  the  new  Gods  and  the  Titans, 
Clear  thy  hint  underneath  flows  in  thy  speech  as  a  rill. 

Look!  our  pathway  Hellenic  has  wandered  now  into  thy  poem, 
Here  is  the  work  of  the  earth,  there  is  the  word  of  the  bard. 

30 
Here  a  peep  thou  canst  take  deep  into  the  smithy  of  Cyclops, 

For  the  King  of  the  skies  see  now  the  thunderbolts  forged, 

Which  he  hurls  in  his  wrath  at  the  wicked.      Then  look  down 

[the  mountain, 

Thou  wilt  behold  all  his  foes — pierced  they  lie  strown  with 

[the  shafts. 

31 

Titans  I  saw    whose  limbs    had    been    scattered    all    over    the 

[mountain, 

Writhing  still  they  lay  skewered  by  bolts  of  high  Jove; 

There  with  bundles  of  limbs  wound  together  fell  huge  Hundred- 

[  Handed; 

Knotted  in  wrath  are  his  thews,  vain  is  the  effort  to  rise. 


-53- 


32 

Often  I  wonder  if  still  at  some  jar  in  the  whirl  of  the  ages 
That  old  war  of  renown  is  to  be  kindled  afresh, 

Namely,  between  the  Titans  and  Jupiter,  near  to  Olympus, 
For  authority's  right  over  the  sons  of  the  Earth. 

If  so,  will  the  Olympian  father  again  be  the  winner, 
Or  on  him  will  the  hills  this  time  be  piled  by  his  foes? 

33 

Jupiter's  chain  holds  him  down,  but  somehow  he  always  recovers, 
Often  he  makes  the  attempt  from  his  low  bed  to  arise. 

Battles  have  no  end,  though  thousands  of  ages  asunder, 
Titans  put  down  in  old  Greece,  will  in  new  Italy  rise. 

Battles  have  no  end,  they  have  to  be  fought  over  always, 
Victory  masks  in  defeat,  could  we  but  see  all  the  Gods. 


—54- 


34 

Fickle  Victoria,  daughter  of  Fortune,  forever  is  changing 
Into  the  form  of  her  foe,  giving  her  plumage  to  him; 

Bright  are  her  feathers,  strutting  erect  all  over  her  body, 

But  each  tick  of  the  clock  strips  a  small  quill  from  her  wings. 

She  in  the  happiest  moment  of  triumph  begets  her  own  victor, 
Who  will  pluck  her  last  plume,  leaving  her  naked  Defeat. 

35 

Mountain   of    fire   that    once   overwhelmed   the    fair   plain    of 

[Pompeii, 

Is  thy  master  a  God,  or  a  fierce  demon  in  wrath? 
See  thy  best  and  thy  worst  deed  into  one  action  united, 

Thou  by  destruction  hast  saved  what  else  had  perished  by  Time. 
Provident  kindness  looks  out  from  the  mask  of  wretched  disaster, 

Evil  and  Good  in  one  shape  ever  are  fatally  blent. 


—55— 


Agony,  printed  in  Lava,  is  read  from  this  side  of  the  mountain; 
See  how  thousands  of  snakes  lie  intertwined  round  a  heart; 

Now  they  are  cold  and  of  stone,  though  once  they   upreared 

[their  long  bodies, 

Writhing  and  hissing  through  flames  in  the  fierce  torment  of 

[pain; 

Now  they  are  but  an  image  which  has  been  moulded  by  Vulcan 
Deep  in  the  smelted  Earth  where  his  dark  forge  is  at  work. 


37 

Vulcan  doth  mould  in  the  under  world  too,  there  ruled  by  the 

[Titan, 

Fearful  and  vast  are  his  shapes  poured  at  Cyclopean  forge. 
Better  I  love  his  works  that  are  made  in  Olympian  workshop, 

Where  he  dwells  with  the  Gods,  filling  their  world  with  his 

[forms. 

Beautiful  Venus,  his  spouse,  there  wreathes  her  laugh  in  his 

[labor, 

Near  him  the  Graces  abide,  casting  their  glance  in  his  shop. 


—56— 


Homely  Vulcan,  begrimed  is  thy  hand  as  them  smitest  the  anvil, 

Channeled  through  soot  on  thy  front  burst  the  great  torrents 

[of  sweat, 

Shaggy  the  hair  on  thy  chest  upsprings  like  brush  on  the  hill- 

[side, 

And  among  Gods  thou  art  lame,  limping  about  at  thy  work. 
Still  a  God  thou,  whom  all  men  will  adore,  for  thou  fixest 

Beautiful  forms  that  would  wilt,  were  they  not  touched  by 

[thy  hand. 


39 


Look  now  back  at  the  blow — Greek  deities  smote  thee,  Pompeii, 
For  degrading  their  forms,  ravishing  wildly  their  art; 

All  their  passions  thou  hast  without  their  Olympian  spirit, 
Gods  for  thy  ornaments  are,  Goddesses,  too,  for  thy  lust. 


40 


Roman,  colossal  thy  will,  gigantic  thy  virtue,  I  fear  thee; 

But  thou  canst  not  enjoy,  senses  will  turn  thee  to  swine. 
Why  must  a  man  be  a  demon  in  hell,  or  a  saint  in  high  heaven? 

Why  not  a  man  on  this  Earth,  dowered  with  body  and  soul? 
See,  our  voyage  has  strayed  to  the  path  of  Grecian  Ulysses, 

Who  the  Sirens  could  hear,  yet  of  their  talons  beware; 

nd  the  magical    draught    he    could   drain    of  fair   Circe,  the 

[charmer, 

Still  he  remained  a  true  man,  could  even  rescue  his  friends; 
Years  upon  years  he  stayed  in  the  bower  of  sweetest  Calypso, 

Never  there  losing  himself,  never  forgetting  his  own. 
£Ie  has  enjoyment,  he  has  restraint  too,  both  in  one  body, 
I  Both  in  one  soul  he  unites,  making  the  music  of  life, 
As  it  is  sung  in  thy  melody  ancient,  poetical  Homer, 

Rocking  my  modern  refrain  on  thy  harmonious  seas. 


—58— 

4' 

O  what  joy  in  this  epigrammatical  voyage,  what  sorrow! 
Out  of  two  threads  it  is  spun,  both  are  in  me  and  in  thee, 

Both  are  in  Rome  and   Pompeii,  the  pain  and  the  pleasure  of 

[being 

One  with  the  soul  of  all  time,  one  with  its  bloom  and  decay. 

Epigrams,  come,  let  us  go,  we  must  haste  to  the  end  of  our 

[voyage, 

Gladly  and  sadly  we  leave,  ancient  Pompeii,  farewell. 

42 

Questioner,  crafty  Ulysses,  subtlety  made  thee  a  skeptic, 
Intellect  stirred  up  the  doubt  always  at  word  of  the  God; 

Boldly  thou  wilt  not  believe  in  the  promise  of  Goddess  Calypso, 
Till  she  has  sworn  the  great  oath  by  the  dark  river  of  Hell; 

And  no  faith  thou  showest  at  first    in    the  words    of  the    Sea 

[Nymph. 

All  the  Gods  thou  dost  doubt,  till  they  have  proven  themselves. 

Even  Pallas^thy  mighty  protectress,  must  show  her  own  wisdom, 

Ere  she  could  win  thy  belief  that  thou  wertcome  to  thy  home. 


—59— 


43 


With  thy    guidance    I   too    have    reached    the    bright  land    of 

[Pheacians, 

Where  Alcinous  dwelt,  wonderful  monarch  of  eld. 
This  is  his  island,  upon  yon  hill  overlooking  the  harbor 

He  with  his  counsellors  sat,  grave  with  the  thought  of  the 

[State. 

Often  about  the  true  site  of  Pheacia  the  learned  have  strive.n, 
Playing  at  blind  man's  buff  in  the  dark  garret  of  lore; 

Everywhere  thou  must  see  it,  on  land,  on  island,  on  mountain, 
Thou  must  see  it  in  Greece,  anything  else  is  not  seen. 

Mythic  Pheacia,  beheld  by  Ulysses,  is  actual  Hellas, 

Imaged  beforehand  in  words  dropped  from  the  lips  of  the  bard, 

Borne  from  the  thought  to  the  deed  by  the  hero — a  prophecy 

[splendid 

Of  one  beautiful  world  heralding:  others  to  be. 


-60- 

44 

What  a  wonderful  raft  was  made  at  the  grot  of  Calypso, 

From  thy  cunning  of  hand  shaping  the  thought  of  thy  brain? 

That  was  the  parent  whose  progeny  now  glides  over  the  Ocean, 
As  the  bird  in  the  air,  braving  Poseidon's  fierce  ire. 

'Well  may  we  pardon  the  wrath  of  the  God,  divinely  foreseeing 
How  this  child  of  that  raft  scornfully  sports  on  his  waves. 

45 

King  Alcinous,  thy  fair  palace  has  had  fairer  offspring! 

Thou  art  ruling  the  world  still  by  the  beautiful  form. 
Out  of  thy  mansion  majestic  was  born  in  a  song  the  Greek  temple, 

Sentineled  round  with  a  choir — Titans  columnar  of  stone, 
Bearing  forever  their  burden  to  hymns  of  a  Parian  measure, 

Wearing  out  heaviest  Fate  to  a  Pindaric  high  strain. 

Look!  those  boys  of  thy  garden  with    tapers    are    moving  to 

[statues, 

Seeming  to  walk  into  stone  while  they  are  bringing  the  light; 
Hellas  springs  out  of  thy  palace  all  sculptured  with  actions  heroic 
Even  the  Gods  we  discern  turning  to  marble  by  faith. 


—61— 


46 

Happy  if  each  of  these  poems  may  rightly  be  called  a  small 

[temple ! 

First  the  colonnade  pass,  then  you  will  come  to  the  cell ; 
If  you  enter  the  deepest  recess,  you  will  see  the  fair  Goddess, 
And  the  worshiper,  too,  bent  at  her  shrine  in  low  prayer. 

47 

Poets,  if  they  be  poets,  are  makers,  making  an  image 

Which  is  to  stamp  old  Time  into  his  thousandfold  forms, 
And  each  thing  of  the  senses,  each  piece  of  indifferent  matter, 

Sealed  by  their  touch  with  a  soul,  draws  a  full  breath  of  the 

[Gods. 

Thou,  old  Homer,  wert  the  first  builder  in  Greece,  the  first  carver, 
Afterward  she  could  but  turn  fancies  of  thine  into  stone; 

Architects  followed  thee,  building  thy  poem  aloft  into  temples, 
Sculptors  followed  thee  too,  thinking  in  marble  thy  line. 


—62— 


48 


On  thy  watery  way  I  am  sailing,  endurer  Ulysses, 

I  look  down  at  the  waves,  there  is  the  scowl  of  the  sea, 

I  look  up  at  the  storm-cloud,  here  it  shattered  thy  vesssel, 

Yonder  I  see  too  the  height  which  then  encouraged  thy  heart. 


49 


Wise  Ulysses,  thy  work  has  been  done  for  thyself  and  the  ages, 

Thou  has  suffered  for  us,  all  who  may  read  of  thy  pain ; 
Fighting  thy  desperate  battle  with  Fate,  thou  hast  fought,  too 

[our  battle, 

Freeing  thyself  in  thy  deed,  us  in  thy  word  thou  hast  freed. 
Such  is  forever  the  hero,  we  share  the  reward  of  his  sorrow, 

What  he  has  done  for  himself,  is  for  the  rest  of  the  world. 
When  through  Hades  he  goes,  he  takes  us  too  in  his  journey, 

When  he  to  Ithaca  comes,  we  are  along,  here  it  is. 


-68- 

5° 

Reader  I  beg  thee  to  step  to  my  place  on  this  ship  and  look 

[forward; 

Gladly  to  thee  I  would  give  all  that  belongs  to  myself. 
Over  the  light-curling  ripples  is  sportively  rocking  the  vessel, 
On  the  sea  to  the  East,  whither  our  voyage  doth  tend. 

Now  we  have  come  to  the  water  once  smit  by  the  oar  of  Ulysses 

) 

Now  we  have  entered  the  world  sunnily  built  of  the  Myth, 
Slowly  transmuting  itself  from  the  fancy  down  into  the  senses, 

Fables  of  ages  we  see  drop  into  Nature's  own  garb. 
Look  far  out  on  the  line  of  the  waves,  there  rises  Poseidon,  - 

Heaving  the  billows  suggest  presences  subtle  within, 
Proteus  ancient,  daughters  of  Nereus,  thousands  of  daughters, 

All  know  their  worshipper  new,  peer  from  the  sea  and  salute. 
It  is  sunrise,  but  in  front  of  the  sun  is  a  mountain, 

Piled  on  its  top  lie  the  clouds  bordered  with  fringes  of  beams; 
Helios  cannot  be  seen  now,  still  thou  wrilt  know  it  is  sunrise, 

Out  of  an  opening  deep  slants  a  long  armful  of  rays, 

And  from    many    a  crevice  are  breaking    great  fragments    of 

[splendor, 

Which  I  would  gather  somehow,  catch  in  these  epigrams  too. 


-64- 


But  O  behold!  before  thee  is  resting  the  sunland  of  Hellas, 
Bursting  the  mist  of  the  morn  over  the  space  of  the  sea, 

Clouds  have  left  but  a  belt  of  thin  gold  bent  round  the  horizon, 
Mountains  are  singing  a  song  from  the  high  seats  of  the  Muse; 

Leap  to  the  shore  and  gather  the  world's  most  radiant  moment, 
As  it  here  shone  in  the  past,  here  it  is  shining  to-day. 


51 


0  Corallion,  see  yon  cloud  in  the  heavens  above  thee: 
It  is  rain  or  snow — chilled  are  its  drops  are  warm  ? 

1  would  like  to  be  rained  from  the  cloud  down  into  thy  window, 

Or  a  snow-flake  be — drop  on  thy  lip  and  there  melt. 


—65— 


52 


Spring    has    now    come,  she    covers  the   prostrate  earth  with 

[caresses, 

Show  me  the  lover  who  yields  first  to  the  thrill  of  her  lips; 
I  believe  it  to  be  this  willow.     Look  at  the  leaflets 

Breaking  out  over  the  bark,  at  her  soft  passionate  touch, 

Row  after  row;  then  glance  at  the  willow-bound  brook  in  the 

[meadow, 

Far  you  can  follow  its  bend,  traced  in  the  foliage  new. 

Next  in  her  love  is  this  group  of  saplings,  fair  youths  of  the 

[plantain, 

Dancing  a  chorus  of  twigs  tuned  to  her  amorous  breath. 
This  old  oak  is  the  last  of  the  forest  to  yield  to  her  rapture, 

Bare  still  as  winter  his  boughs,  fringed  with  dead  leaves  of 

[last  year. 

But  even  he  is  begining  to  smile  and  respond  to  her  kisses, 
See  this  outgushing  bud  throbbed  from  his  savage  hard  heart. 

Heart  of  oak,  yield  thee,  this  is  the  season  of  soft  Aphrodite, 
This  is  her  land ;  stout  Mars  threw  down  his  shield  at  her  glance. 


-66— 


53 


Eros,  much  of  my  life  and  my  lay  to  thee  I  have  given; 

Faithful  vassal  in  verse,  I  would  repose  now  awhile, 
Till  I  write  these  epigrams.  Unto  these  wandering  children 

Would  I  tranquillity  lend,  joys  of  a  ramble  in  spring 
Mid  the  quiet  of  hills,  in  the  golden  repose  of  the  sunbeams, 

Voiced  with  low  murmur  of  brooks,  far  from  thy  passionate 

[call. 

Later  again  from  thy  torch  light  a  fire,  a  new  fire  in  my  bosom, 
Fiercer  than  ever  before  kindle  my  tongue  to  a  flame. 


-67— 


54 


Nature  is  now  a  fair  maiden  who  dresses  herself  for  the  marriage, 
Come  and  look  at  her  thus,  all  her  old  lovers  she  lets 

Into  the  secret  of  her  betrothal  that  comes  with  the  spring  time, 
She  will  take  no  offence,  modestly  peep  at  her  ways. 

Over  her   body   she  draws   in    her   triumph    a  flowing  green 

[garment; 

Emeralds  under  her  touch  burst  from  each  bud  on  the  bough; 

Garlands  of    blossoms    she  winds  round  her  bosom,    velvety, 

[vermeil, 

Here  they  are  white  with  her  hand,  there  they  are  blue  with 

[her  eye. 

Ha!  the  bright  face  of  the  bridegroom  peering  just  over  the 

[mountain! 

'Tis  the  new  sun  from  the  skies  flinging  his  gold  on  her  path. 

Now  her  song  she  begins,  her  sweet  passion  from  all  of  the  tree 

[tops, 

With  her  each  bird  on  the  twigf  chants  its  own  bridal  refrain. 


BOOK    THIRD. 


-69— 


Each  faint  rustle  of  branches  above  is  a  Goddess'  whisper, 
Each  petty  murmur  of  brooks  is  a  low  laugh  of  the  Nymphs, 

And  a  sweet  little  epigram  steals  from  the  glance  of  each  maiden, 
Dew  drops  hung  on  each  leaf  are  the  pure  tears  of  the  Mu-e. 

But  the  miracle  is,  thou  too  art  becoming  a  poem 

In  this  clime  of  the  Gods;  wonder,  O  man,  at  thyself! 


Here  on  this  spot  knit  together  are  sea,  and  valley,  and  mountain. 
Here  is  the  youth  of  this  plain  by  the  old  hills  overlooked; 

Here  is  the  joy  of  the  senses,  but  mingled  with  warnings  of 

[wisdom, 

Here  are  the  flowers  of  Spring  wreathing  the  fruits  of  the 

[Fall. 

Hellas,  a  universe  thou!  so  small,  and  yet  thou  art  able 

Clearly  to  image  the  world,  which,  though  it  was,  is  to  be. 


-70— 


Hellas,  I  look  at  thy  body  now  lying  down  under  my  vision, 
Over  thy  bosom  I  peep,  heaving  to  mountain  and  peak; 

Athens,  I  see  thee,  the  head  of  this  beautiful  body  of  Hellas, 
From  the  blue  waves  upraised,  cushioned  on  violet  beds, 

Brain-born  child  of  the  brain-born  daughter  of  Zeus  the  Olym- 

[pian, 

Who  hath  named  thee    her  own,  doubly  endowed  with  her 

[mind, 

Fathered  of  father  of  Gods,  and  mothered  of  mother  of  wisdom; 

There  is  Acropolis  too,  which  is  thy  battle-lit  eye, 
Glancing  afar  on  the  sea,  yet  smiling  on  blue  Attic  hill-tops; 

Of  this  Athenian  eye  look  in  the  pupil  so  clear, 
That  is  the  Parthenon,  sunlit,  reposeful,  the  Goddess'  dwelling 

Out  of  it  flashes  a  beam  liehtins:  the  soul  of  the  world. 


—71— 


Quarrymen  seemed  T  to  hear  as  they  smote  the  deep  rock  of  the 

[Muses, 

For  the  pure  white  leaf  on  which  to  grave  a  new  word; 
Often  the   hammer  resounded  afar  through  the  vale  of  Ilissus, 

Temples  and  Gods  into  life  moved  at  the  sound  of  the  stroke. 
Over  the  water  came  echoes  from  Rome,  enfeebled  by  distance, 

Laden  with  dust  of  the  past  Europe  gave  answer  to  Rome. 
Last  came  the  echo  of  hope,  unbodied  it  rose  from  the  future, 

Crossing  Atlantic  tides  mightily  heaving  between. 


To  the  violet  summit  I  climbed  of  strong  Lycabettus, 

Bound  are  its  sides  with  the  rocks  made  for  eternity's  walls; 

There  I  picked  but  a  weed   as  it  struggled   alone   through  the 

[crevice, 


Raised  it  up  to  my  lips,  thoughtlessly  strolling  along. 

ut    how  gracious  the    flavor    that   cunningly  touched  ; 

[se 

Flavor  distilled  by  a  weed  merely  from  Attica's  rocks. 


—72 


Mad  are  my  eye.s!  to-day  they  are  merrily  slaves  of  my  fancy; 

A  Greek  maiden  I  saw  who  through  the  ages  had  dropped; 
She  was  one  of  the  forms  that  danced  in  the  chorus  of  Pindar, 

And  she  sang  his  high  hymns,  moving  to  music  of  flutes. 


Merry  Anacreon,  many  an  epigram  tells  of  thy  days  and  their 

[joy  a  nee, 

And  thy  epitaph  too  ever  is  written  afresh; 

Wine  and  Love  and   the  Muse  made  thy  life  one  intoxication, 
Even  thy  death  is  a  feast  lighting  grim  Hades  with  joy. 

All    made   thee   drunk,  the  twitter  of  swallows,  the  chirp  of 

[cicadas, 

Love  of  maiden  and  youth,  gift  of  mad  Bacchus  as  well. 
Nature  becomes  a  melodious  banquet,  reeling  in  verses, 

Roses  and  ivy  and  vines  twirl  round  thy  lines  with  a  laugh. 

But  the  most  maddening  draught  to  thyself  and  to  me   is  thy 

[poem, 

A  true  singer  thou  art,  on  thine  own  song  thou  art  drunk. 


—73— 


Far  I  rambled  to-day  through  the  grove  in  the  vale  of  Kephissus, 
There  in  the  Olives  I  found  hidden  a  blackberry  grot, 

Laden  with  fruit  was  each  pliant  bush,  yet  hung  with  fresh 

[blossoms, 

Dark  were  the  berries  that  shone  through  the  white  wreath 

[on  the  stalk. 

Now  it  is  winter,  yet  see  the  full  fruit  alongside  of  the  flower! 

Ripeness  of  age  in  this  clime  has  the  fresh  blossom  of  youth. 
I  approach  the  fair  harvest  desiring  to  taste  the  new  flavor, 

Also  the  fragrance  to  scent  breathed  from  the  flowering  shrub. 

Heigh!  what   a  rustle   of  wings   is   flapped   fi'om    hundreds   of 

[birdlings, 

Who  a  festival  held  hidden  in  berries  and  buds. 
'Far  through  the  orchard  they  scatter,  then  drop  in  the  tree-tops; 
Hark !  what  a  melody  trills  out  of  the  silvery  leaves. 


O  the  mad  Attic  joys  now  dancing  aloft  on  the  mountains! 
And  the  gentler  delights  tripping  through  forest  and  stream! 

Armies    of  happy    existence    move   out    of  the   trees   and    the 

[fountains, 
Whole  new  peoples  spring  up  over  the  emerald  floor, 

Slipping  into  the  world  for  a  moment,  then  slipping  out  of  't, 
Hark,  the  new  song  they  begin  suddenly  over  my  head. 

10 

Scattered  along    on    my  journey  are  many    old    fragments  of 

[marble, 

Showing  a  crystalline  smile  on  the  sere  face  of  the  ground ; 

Still  they  gladden  the  wanderer  mid  the  dull  rubbish  around 

[them, 

Though  they  be  but  the  chips  left  by  some  workman  of  old. 
These  were  the  fragments  imprisoning   sunny  Ionian  columns, 
.  Till  by  the  chisel  set  free  out  of  the  fetters  of  rock ; 

These  were  the  pieces  in  which  was  nestled  the  form  of  the 

[Goddess, 

Look  once  more  at  the  shell  whence  the  great  Pallas  escaped. 


—  i  o — 


II 


Once  this  plain,  now  so  rocky  and  thirsty,  was  full  of  dense 

[foliage, 

Rich  aviaries  of  song  were  all  the  tops  of  the  trees, 
Whence  a  perennial  runnel  of  music  ran  down  from  each  leaflet, 

Nourishment  sweet  for  the  tongues  lapping  melodious  dew. 
Still  I  can  see  in  this  soil  green  sprouts  of  many  a  sapling 

That  would  the  grove  restore  where  the  high  singers  once 

[lodged. 


12 


Look    over   Attica!    deserts   of    rock    are    her   fields   and    her 

[highlands; 

Orphaned  of  warblers  she  seems,  orphaned  of  trees  for  their 

[seats; 

But  a  sharp  search  will  discover  still  many  a  little,  low  bramble, 
Wherein  birdlings  sit  piping  a  wee  tender  note. 

When  to-day  I  had  found  a  green   bush,  it  was  full  of  young 

[singers 

Warbling  some  old  Attic  chimes  tuned  to  ancestral  high  strains. 


-76 


'3 

Through  Attic  meadows  I  stroll;  I  come  to  a  grove  of  broad 

[poplars 

Where  the  shepherd  breeze  plays  a  low  note  on  his  pipe; 
Round  the  roots  of  the  trees  is  running  on  pebbles  the  brooklet, 

Murmuring  strains  to  the  brink,  fresh  from  the  home  of  the 

["Nymphs. 

But  the  tree-tops  have  given  a  refuge  to  sweet  Attic  singers 
That  from  their  leafy  abode  throw  out  a  fountain  of  song; 

List  to  the  wealth  that  they  fling'  on  the  air  in  melodious  revel, 
Hundred-throated  with  joy  in  the  debauch  of  their  strains. 


On  this  classical  soil  one  cannot  help  being  an  augur  — 

Watches  the  feathery  flight,  lists  to  the  humming  of  wings, 

That  he  may  find  out  the  will  of  the   Gods   and  set  it  to  music: 
Nature  is  deity's  hymn,  folding  the  earth  in  a  song. 


Poesy  is,  O  reader,  not  merely  the  copy  of  Nature; 

Nature's  voice  she  must  win,  breathing  it  into  a  word; 
But  that  word  has  divinity's  soul  in  the  body  of  Nature, 

From  her  lips  you  must  catch  inward  the  strain  of  the  God. 

16 

Often  before  have  I  rambled  through  fields  in  the  Spring,  said 

[the  shepherd; 

But  the  green  grass-blade  to  me  was  but  a  blade  of  green  grass; 
Or,  I  thought  it  was  good  for  a  spear  of  dry  hay  in  a  bundle, 

Which  would  nourish  my  flock  when  the  bare  winter  had  come. 
Now  to  my  glance,  as  I  wander  around  the  green  Attic  meadows, 

A  new  being  it  springs  suddenly  up  at  my  feet. 


—78- 


'7 

Poem  I  never  could  relish  that  babbled  of  Nymphs  and  the  Muses : 
Lifeless  they  were  to  the  eye,  meaningless  unto  the  soul ; 

But  in  this  soil  they  now  rise  as  of  old  to  the  vision  Hellenic, 
They  each  moment  are  born,  breathing,  yea,  speaking  to  me. 

Seize  them  thou  must  as  they  spring  into  life  in  the  trees,  in  the 

[fountains; 

Set  them  no  longer  to  grind,  bound  to  the  treadmill  of  verse. 
Leave  them  alone  if  thou  art  not  able  to  merrily  catch  them, 
Bathing  in  the  lone  brook,  singing  their  note  on  the  hills. 


18 


Gently  the  rill  flows  over  white  pebbles  of  Pentelic  marble, 
Into  the  Olives  it  winds  vanishing  under  the  leaves; 

See  the  clear  stream  with  a  flow  like  the  folds  of  the  Pythian 

[priestess, 

As  to  the  altar  she  goes  hung  on  the  thought  of  the  God. 


—79— 


19 

Winged  are  words,  O  Homer,  but  feathered  from  various  pinions ; 
Some  have  the  eagle's  wing,  darting  adown  on  the  prey; 

Some  have  the  buzzard's,  but  hark !  altogether  the  most  have 

[the  screech-owl's; 

Be  the  small  humming-bird's  mine,  always  he  hums  while  he 

[sips. 

20 

Winged  is  ever  thy  word,  O  Homer;  such  is  thy  vision 
That  thou  beholdest  it  fly,  sped  on  its  way  by  the  Muse; 

Winged  thy  word,  O  bard;  and,  propelled  on  the  breath  of  thy 

[music, 

Soars  aloft  with  a  thought  tuned  to  the  flight  of  the   spheres 

21 

)Poet  is  he  who  to  speech  transferring  the  image  of  Nature, 
Therein  hidden  transfers  also  the  form  of  the  God. 


—80- 


This  is  Hellas,  the  thyme  you  can  pluck  from  the  stoniest  hillside; 

Thyme  here  grows  from  the  rocks,  thence  all  its  fragrance  it 

[draws. 


23 

What  is  the  highest  of  Nature,  the    noblest  of  things  of  the 

[senses? 

What  but  this  body  of  life?  said  the  fair  Greek  to  himself. 
Let  it  be  trained  until  it  become  a  mirror  transparent 

In  whose  movement  you  see  all  the  fine  work  of  the  soul. 

24 

No,  thy  form  was  not  made  to  be  stretched  on  the  cross  of 

[distortion, 

But  for  the  Graces'  abode  joined  to  Apollo's  clear  rhythm; 
Still  the  Poet  can  hear,  as  he  notes  thy  victorious  movements 
Hymning  thy  body's  refrain,  melody  deep  for  his  song. 


-81— 


25 

'Tis  the  Barbarian's  mark  to  behold  his  own  shame  in  his  body, 
And  to  hide  it  in  swathes  lest  it  offend  the  clear  eye; 

But  the  Greek  soul  has  purified  body  to  motion  of  spirit 
That  the  immortal  Gods  take  it  with  joy  as  their  own. 

26 

Tender  verses  I  pluck  on  my  path  from  the  tip  of  each  leaflet, 
From  unfolding  soft  buds  sip  I  the  dew  of  the  morn, 

Sweet  little  epigrams  lightly  I  suck  from  the  lips  of  each  flowret, 
All  the  sweet  treasure  I  drip  into  a  honeycomb  rare 

Made  out  of  hundreds  of  cellules  with  geometric  precision; 
Still  from  the  clear  waxen  fount  gushes  the  heart  of  the  flowers. 


—82— 

27 
CORYDOX. 

Where  hast  thou  been,  O  Tityrus,  where  hast  thou  been,  errant 

[shepherd  ? 

For  thou  hast  fed  on  some  sweets  that  in  the  mountain  grow 

[wild ; 

Fragrantly  wreathes  thy  breath  as  it  subtly  pervadeth  the  cabin, 
Filling  with  incense  the  air  fit  for  the  home  of  a  God; 

And  thy  \vords,  too,  thy  words  are  tenderly  laden  with  fragrance, 
As  they  drop  from  thy  tongue  when  thou  art  telling  thy  tale. 

Strange  that  the  sound  of  thy  voice  is  transfused  with  the  odor 

[of  flowers; 

Tell  me,  where  hast  thou  been,  Tityrus,  where  hast  thou  been? 

TITYRUS. 

Wandering  lone  in  my  journey  I  came  to  the  ridge  of  Hymettus, 
And  ascended  the  hill  thence  to  look  over  the  plain ; 

There  I  lay  down  to  repose  in  the  shade  mid  the  herbs  and  the 

[flowers, 

Whiling  the  hours  away  watching  the  bees  at  their  work. 

Thence  I  followed  their  flight  by  the  hum  of  the  air  of  the 

[mountain, 


-83- 

Till  I  came  to  their  stores  which  I  then  sipped  to  my  fill; 

And  I  have  learned  how  to  find  the  sweet  treasures  of  blooming 

[Hymettus, 

Daily  now  honey  I  have,  else  I  am  sure  I  should  die. 

CORYDON. 
Thither,  O  Tityrus,  let  me  go  with  thee,  I  too  have  a  longing 

To  behold  the  fair  mount  hiding  such  wealth  in  its  rocks. 
Give  me  to  silently  breathe  of  the  air  of  the  thyme-scented  hillside, 

And  at  melodious  work  bright  golden  hummers  to  see 

Driving  their  wings  in  the  sunbeams;  through  the  rocks  let  me 

[follow. 

Till  I  mayr  taste  the  sweet  drop  stored  in  Hymettus  away. 

28 

Slowly  I  climb  to  the  top,  the  rest  of  the  heights  lie  below  me, 
Which,  as  I  looked  from  the  plain,  seemed  very  lofty  and  great; 

Yonder  I  was,  I  reflect  now,  laboring  joyfully  upward, 
There  on  a  stone  I  sat  down,  taking  repose  from  my  toil. 

Now  I  glance  back  from  this  seat  where  I  rest,  I  write  a  short 

[poem, 

Brave  little  epigram,  up — quickly  advance  to  the  top. 


—84— 


Many  a  new-born  kid  you  may  see  on  the  rocks  of  Hymettus, 

--  —Dropped  by  the  mother  there  suddenly  touched  with  the  pang 

Ushering  life  into  light;  then  quickly  she  turns  to  her  offspring 

With  a  fond  gleam  from  her  eye  kindled  by  Nature's  deep  joy. 

At  a  draught  of  milk  from  the  udder  young  knees  will  stiffen, 

Thousands  of  kids  in  their  sport  leap  on  the  sides  of  the  hills. 

3° 

Sweet  was  the  voice  of  the  shepherdess,  tender  the  word  of  the 

[shepherd, 

She  always  looked  on  her  babe,  he  always  looked  on  his  spouse  ; 
Under  the  shade  of  a  plantain  she  nursed  her  first  little  infant, 

While  the  lambs  lay  around  shutting  their  eyes  in  the  sun. 
Thou,  young  wife  art  born  over  again  in  the  life  of  thy  offspring, 

Motherhood  too  is  a  birth,  mother  thou  art  and  a  babe. 
Mark  !  each  suck  of  the  stout  little  lips  at  thy  plenteous  fountain, 

Each  little  kick  on  thy  heart  changes  thee  into  thy  boy. 


-85- 


New  Hymettian  quarries  of  marble  have  lately  been  opened, 
See  the  laborer  there  clearing  the  rubbish  away 

Where  was  the  cloister.    At  noontide  in  the  calm  shade  of  its  ruins 
He  will  nap  for  a  time  ;  this  is  its  very  last  use. 

32 

On  Hymettus  thoti  still  canst  behold  the  remains  of  the  quarries 
Which  for  the  marble  were  wrought,  bringing  it  out  to  the  sun  ; 

Now  deserted  they  lie,  filled  up  with  the  rubbish  of  ages, 
Yet  beneath  all  the  waste  wait  the  old  treasures  for  light. 

Open  the  quarries  once  more  now  hid  in  the  heart  of  Hymettus, 
Bring  out  its  crystalline  stores,  still  it  has  temples  and  Gods. 

33 

Poesy  dost  thou  find  in  thy  strolls  on  rugged  Hymettus? 

Why,  the  mountain  is  bare,  harvest  it  has  but  of  stones.  — 
Yet  the  bee  will  find  on  these  rocks  the  sweetest  of  honey; 

Out  of  their  caverns  and  creaks  hives  he  will  build  for  his  stores. 


—86— 


34 

We  may  behold  the  mythical  world  thou  didst  live  in,  O  Homer, 
From  Hymettus  the  blue  looking  across  toward  Troy; 

All  the  Gods  are  astir  now,  and,  summoned  to  hold  their  assembly, 
Rise  in  the  sound  of  the  sea,  move  in  the  song  of  the  land; 

And  to  me,  the  poor  mortal,  Hermes  is  bringing  their  message, 
Each  little  thought  of  the  heart  is  a  light  waft  of  the  God. 

35 

Yonder  I  see  that  I  strayed  as  I  look  from  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
Tarried  too  long  for  the  flower,  not  long  enough  for  the  fruit 
Of  my  journey  to  ripen  in  sunshine:  double  my  error; 
x"~  Still  I  had  to  stray  there,  if  I  would  mount  to  this  height. 
Many  the  lower  small  summits  that  swell  over  graceful  Hymettus, 

Some  with  their  blossoms  and  bees,  some  with  their  thistles 

[and  thorns. 


-87— 


36 

Twain  is  the  being  of  man,  composed  of  the  soul  and  the  body, 
Twain  is  Nature  herself,  made  up  of  good  and  of  bad; 

And  Hymettus  is  twain,  of  the  bees  and  the  goats  the  one  parent, 
Both  thou  must  take  by  the  way,  if  thou  dost  wish  to  be  all. 

Sip  the  sweet  honey  drawn  by   the  bees  from  the  heart  of  the 

["flowers, 

But  thee  I  warn — thou  wilt  pass  through  the  rough  tract  of 
,  [the  goats.  - 

37 

In  my  ramble  I  went  far  astray  in  a  gorge  of  Hymettus, 
Now  I  see  my  mistake  plain  as  the  sun  on  yon  rock, 

And  I  wonder  how  I  could  lose  the  clear  lines  of  this  mountain, 
All  of  which  seem  to  direct  straight  to  the  beautiful  goal. 

What  seems  easy  is  hardest,  what  seems  near  is  most  distant, 
Sunlit  Hymettus,  to-day  thou  art  my  image  of  life. 


—88— 


38 

Two  are  the  sides  of  Hymettus,  O  wanderer;  steep  and  ungainly 
Is  the  whole  slope  of  the  mount,  when  from  fair  Athens  it  turns ; 

Yet  how  graceful  and  gradual  is  the  descent  toward  Athena's 
Marble  abode,  where  she  lies  resting  on  violet  beds. 

But  deceive  not  thyself  by  the  view,  this  way  is  more  distant, 
It  to  the  temple  doth  lead  which  the  wise  Goddess  indwells. 


39 

Yes,  I  saw  the  coarse  goats  as  they  fed  on  the  top  of  Hymettus, 
Browsing  the  live-long  day  on  a  mere  bramble  of  thorns 

Whose  toothed  leaves  ran  out  to  a  point  in  a  truculent  briar; 
Still  the  goats  would  devour  leaflets  and  twigs  with  the  spines. 

How  to  live  on  the  bramble  that  chokes  up  the  ways  of  the 

[Muses, 

The  example  is  here — one  must  be  changed  to  a  goat. 


—89— 


4° 

What!  is  it  true  that  foul  goats  now  feed  on  this  honey-dewed 

[mountain? 

Yes;  for  the  note  of  a  Muse  list  to  that  sensual  snort. 

Here  they  too  have  been  lodged,  just  where  the  high  summit  is 

[highest, 

And  in  the  shadiest  dell,  under  the  pleasantest  pine. 
How  do  I  know  ?  thou  askest.  Hymettus  is  turned  to  a  dung-hill, 
That  is  the  sign  of  the  goat,  feculent  drops  lie  around. 


41 

The   whole    day   like    a    goat  you  may   browse  on  the  leaves 

[thorn-bordered, 

Which  now  grow  on  the  mount  where  all  the  Muses  once  sang; 
Sprigs  you  may  pluck  by  the  handful  in  search  of   a  savory 


Through  all  the  cotes  you  may  pass,  there  not  a  panspipe  is 

[found. 

Turn  then  aside  to  the  musical  stream  sent  down  from  the  ancients, 
You  will  find  the  old  mount  full  of  bright  flowers  and  song 


—90 


42 

Oft  have  I  strayed  from  the  path,  but  always  returned  from  my 

[straying; 
Often  have  I  been  lost  till  I  discovered  myself. 

Fiercely  I  stormed  through  the  weeds,  I  fought  on  my  path  with 

[the  brambles, 

Burs  I  picked  from  my  coat,  thorns  I  pulled  out  of  my  flesh. 
But  as  I  wandered  alone,  not  knowing  whither  I  tended, 

Flowers  I  plucked  in  the  fields,  fruits  too  I  culled  from  the 

[trees. 

Labyrinthine  Hymettus,  one  must  be  lost  in  thy  windings, 
In  thy  honeycomb  lost,  ere  of  thy  sweetness  he  taste. 


43 

Epigrams,  wake!  ye  seem  to  have  fallen  asleep  or  are  sleepy; 
Weave  to  a  bower  your  forms  over  the  wayfarer's  path, 

As  he  leaps  on  the  stones  and  roams  through  the  dells  of  the 

[mountain  : 

Then  on  Hymettus'  top  lay  the  bright  wreath  ye  have  wound. 


—91— 


44 

What  is  thy  thought  as  thou  strollest  through  hollows  and  hills 

[of  Hymettus? 

Life  is  a  honeycomb  too,  made  up  of  millions  of  cells 

Which  are  called  moments  of  Time;  perchance  they  are  utterly 

[empty, 

But  may  with  honey  be  filled  from  the  sweet  flowers  of  earth. 

Every  minute  to-day  is  a  void   little   cell,  by  the  Gods   to  thee 

[given, 

Be  now  busy  as  bees,  with  a  sweet  deed  fill  the  cell. 


45 

Now  the  height  of  Hymettus  I  touch,  of  my  efforts  the  highest, 
Always  before  have  I  stopped,  worn  by  the  difficult  way. 

From   this  spot  I  can  see    the  whole    plain    stretched  humbly 

[below  me, 

Over  whose  equal  expanse  wildly  I  wandered  to-day. 
But  the  view  that  pleases  me  most,  looking  back  on  my  pathway, 
Is,  I  see  over  the  heights  which  I  once  reached,  and  then  left. 


—92- 


46 

Now  I  look  out  on  the  world  from  the  top  of  sunny  Hymettus; 

Far  below  me  it  lies,  all  its  mad  struggle  unheard, 
And  its  bounds  on  the  farthest  sea  I  hold  in  my  vision; 

How  does  it  seem  ?  you  inquire.    Look  in  these  epigrams  here. 
Hundreds  of  mirrors  I  place  them,  always  returning  one  image; 

Though  the  facets  be  small,  each  will  reflect  the  full  form. 

47 

Overlaid  with  the  gold  of  the  sun  is  the  top  of  the  mountain, 
To  those  treasures  I  wend,  shunning  mad  Eros  the  while; 

There  is  the  softest  caress  of  the  Muse,  and  the  pipe  of  the 

[shepherd, 

Soothing  the  wound  of  the  heart  in  the  repose  of  the  hills. 
But  I  soon  shall  return,  again  I  shall  love,  I  know  it; 
The  sole  freedom  I  have  is  to  be  thrall  of  the  God. 


—93- 


48 

Tell  me  what  ails  thee,  O  friend?     Art  mortal,  hast  surely  the 

[heart-ache; 

Then  go  with  me  to-day,  yonder  are  heights  in  the  sun ; 
Bathe  the  still-ebbing  wound  of  thy  heart  in  the  quiet  of  hill-tops, 
There  alone  thoti  canst  be  with  the  great  Healer,  the  God. 

49 

Yesterday  green  was  the  mountain,  but  to-day  it  is  hoary; 

Snow  has  fallen  above,  covered  its  temples  with  grey ; 
Yesterday  thou  wert  a  youth  upspringing  in  bloom  to  the  heavens, 

Ah,  to-day  thou  art  old,  gone  through  thy  time  at  a  bound. 
See  how  age  is  barely  divided  from  youth  by  a  snow-storm, 

Crushed  into  one  wild  night  all  of  thy  years  are  a  dream. 


-94— 


5° 

Chill  is  the  wind  that  bears  me  along  toward  snowy  Hymettus, 

The  lone  shepherd  now  comes  down  from  the  mount  with  his 

[flocks, 

He  has  put  up  his  panspipe,  snow  has  palsied  his  fingers, 

Flowers  no  longer  will  bloom,  springing  above  the  rude  rock 

Into  the  sunlight;  every  bee  has  fted  from  the  hill-side; 
Poesy  freezes  to-day;  Poet  too  shivers  along. 

51 

Round  the  top  of  the  mountain  are  whirling  the  flakes  of  the 

[snow-storm, 

While  below  in  the  plain  softly  are  playing  the  beams; 
Darkly  Hymettus  doth  muffle  his  head  in  his  wind-woven  mantle, 
Lying  serene  on  her  couch  Parthenon  still  has  the  sun. 


—95— 


52 

Aeschylus  saw  yon  sea  when  he  spoke  of  its  numberless  laughter; 

Now  its  face  you  behold  sparkling  with  millions  of  smiles 
Merrily  racing  each  other  in  sport  to  the  Isthmian  race-course, 

The  great  games  of  the  God  still  they  keep  up  at  his  shore. 
But  look  deep  in  the  water  and  watch  its  laughing  reflection, 

There  the  Olympian  world  dimples  with  smiles  in  the  waves. 

53 

Look  at  this  cairn,  the  monument  built  by  others  before  me 
Right  on  the  top  of  the  mount,  far  overlooking  the  vale, 

Till  the  glancing  victorious  sea,  whose  flutter  of  wavelets 
Plays  round  Salamis  still  paeans  of  warriors  of  old. 

Touch  with  thine  eye  the  great  heart  of  the  sea  in  the  distance, 
Thou  its  deep  beating  wilt  feel  as  if  a  battle  were  there. 


-96- 


54 

Clear  are  the  lines  of  this  mountain,  like  to  the  forms  of  the 

[sculptor, 

And  transparent  the  air  softly  embracing  its  curves; 

Up  here  I  stand,  not  a  soul  in  the  plain  there  below  can  behold 

[me, 
Still  in  Greek  sunshine  I  stand,  that  is  my  only  reward. 


55 

Why  were  the  sides  of  this  mountain,  when   they  were   rolled 

[into  ridges, 

Fixed  by  the  hand  of  the  God  just  at  their  tenderest  swell? 

Look,  you  will  see  the   reason.     There  the  broad  folds  of  the 

[ancients 

Sculptured  over  its  slant  sweep  with  their  trail  in  the  plain. 


—97— 


This  hook  of  epigrams,  what  shall  I  call    it?     A    handful  of 

[pebbles 

Gathered  in  my  ascent  from  the  rough  side  of  the  mount. 

And  that  writing  I  scratch  on  all  of  them  ?     That  is  my  verse- 

[mark ; 

With  some  faith  thou  must  try,  if  the  device  thou  wilt  read, 

57 

Here  are  my  stones  to  the  cairn  upreared  by  my  dear  predecessors^ 
Whose  great  names  can  be  read,  writ  on  the  tablets  of  rock; 

On  the  pile  I  throw  down  my  pebbles,  each  one  is  scribbled 
With  some  legend  faint,  visible  scarce  to  the  crowd. 

Still  my  mark  on  them  will  hereafter  be  always  deciphered 
By  a  few  climbers;  to-day  leave  me  this  comfort  at  least. 


58 

Shepherds  were  piping  and  calling  to-day  all  over  the  mountain, 
Far  asunder  they  were,  no  one  his  fellow  could  see; 

Still  each  heai  d  and  answered  the  other,  in  words  far-resounding, 
Which  in  harmonious  waves  played  through  the  tortuous  dells. 

In  my  own  native  speech  I  endeavored  to  give  them  an  answer, 
Set  to  the  music  I  heard  there  on  the  pastoral  heights. 

59 

See  the  shepherd  who  leans  on  yon  bush,  I  happen  to  know  him; 

Clothes  are  the  skins  of  his  flock,  rude  is  the  staff  in  his  hand ; 
Plain  is  his  speech,  but  the  word  bears  in  it  some  image  of  Nature, 

And  if  he  strike  up  a  song,  clear  it  will  flow  from  his  heart, 
which  hear  his  music,  eves  which  pierce  his  mantle, 

Find  the  man  within,  find  too  the  beautiful  soul. 


-99- 

6o 

• 

Up!  the  snow  has  fallen  to-day  and  covered  Hymettus, 
See  how  he  shimmers  aloft  next  to  the  clouds  of  the  sky ! 

Xo\v  we  must  go  and  behold  him  once  more  in  new  crystalline 

[drapery 

That  falls  over  his  sides,  like  the  white  folds  of  the  Gods. 

61 

Shaggy  capote  of  the  shepherd  is  snowy  with  fleeces  of  cloudland, 

There  he  stands  mid  his  herd,  white  as  the  sheep    that  he 

[drives ; 

But  just  look  at  the  goat,  the  black  goat,  to  a  fleece  now  whitened, 
Yet  with  a  ray  of  the  sun  he  will  again  be  a  goat. 

.      62 

'^High-toned  society  I  cannot  find  in  your  epigrams;  bless  me, 
What  a  vulgar  set!  shepherds,  and  goats,  and  yourself." 

Humble  we  are,  I  confess,  although,  if  you  scan  us  more  closely, 
You  will  behold  what  is,  not  is  pretending  to  be. 


—100 


Once  I  met  a  small  bee  in  my  walk  on  the  top  of  Hymettus; 

On  a  bare  rock  he  sat,  as  I  bent  over  his  seat. 
What!  is  it  truth  or  delusion?  From  stones  extractest  thou  honey 

Famed  of  old  as  to-day,  delicate  drop  of  the  world? 
Friend,  I  hail  thee!  fly  not  away,  I  gladly  would  know  thee; 

Teach  me  how  sweetness  to  draw  out  of  the  heart  of  the  rock. 


64 


Here  the  old  cloister  is  lying,  now  fallen  to  ruin  and  romance, 
Quiet  it  rests  in  the  vale  where  meditation  once  dwelt; 

So  the  cloister  is  passing  the  way  of  the  temple  and  column, 
In  it  no  longer  is  heard  prayer  ascending  on  high. 

But  the  Nymph  is  still  here,  and  she  will  remain  here  forever, 
Laughing  out  of  this  spring,  as  it  leaps  down  the  fresh  stones. 


-101- 

* 

65 

Over  the  fountain  the  layers  of  rock  rise  up  in  graceful  disorder/ 
Temple  built  by  the  Nymphs  in  a  wild  fanciful  play 

For  those  youths  whose  worship  was  sport  and  whose  sport  was 

fa  worship; 

Here  by  the  cloister  it  lies,  just  the  same  temple  of  old. 
This  is  a  seat  of  the  Nymphs,  and  there  in  the  rocks  are  grimaces 
Which  they  in  mockery  make,  mocking  the  vanishing  monks. 

66 

' 

How  it  may  be  with  thee,  O  reader,  I  know  not, 

But  as  for  me  I  rejoice,  seeing  the  joy  of  this  fount 

And  of  these  rocks  still  filled  with  the  happy  reminders  of  fable; 
In  these  ruinous  walls  too  1  rejoice — let  them  fall. 

67 

O  Pindarus,  one  finds  in  the  golden  strands  of  thy  network, 
Intricate  yet  full  of  grace,  all  the  sweet  music  of  forms — 

Grecian   youths,  as   they  strove  in   the   games   or  leapt   in  the 

Trace-course, 

u 

As  in  the  contest  or  dance  wound  they  fair  shapes  to  a  hymn. 


102- 


68 


Fervid,  O  high-worded  bard,  is  thy  worship  of  youthful  Apollo, 

God  of  wisdom  and  song  blended  in  music  to  one; 
God  of  all  the  high  harmonies,  both  the  inner  and  outer; 

Let  me  too  him  revere,  softly  attuned  to  his  strain. 
Hark !  he  hath  a  deep  power  which  sets  the  full  soul  in  vibration, 

To  some  melody  pure  that  is  beyond  our  own  selves; 
But  when  the  God  has  withdrawn  his  touches  of  innermost  music, 

Back  to  the  earth  we  fall  into  unresonant  clav. 


69 


Give  me  thy  melody,  give  me  thy  theme,  both  flowing  together, 
Word  is  one  with  the  thought,  form  is  the  same  as  the  soul; 

Legend  transparently  bears  in  the  flow  of  thy  music  its  moral, 
Ever  the  mode  thou  dost  sing  one  is  with  what  thou  dost  sing. 


-103— 


7o 


Theban  eagle,  now  thou  hast  shown  me  where  is  the  summit 
Of  the  culture  of  Greece,  long  by  me  sought  with  much  toil; 

Harmony  is  its  whole  name,  deep-woven  through  cunningest 

[measures, 

All  of  whose  strands  intertwine  into  one  garment  of  song. 


Still  to-day  you  can  see  the  white  folds  of  the  antique  peplos, 
As  they  fall  down  the  limbs, rounded  and  full,  of  the  maid; 

And  the  man  you  behold  as  he  strides  in  white  tunic  of  linen, 
Showing  the  shapely  turns  which  are  our  body's  own  song. 

Look  at  yon  form,  and  know  why  marble  was  taken  by  sculpture 
To  express  the  high  deed  done  by  the  Great  Man  or  God. 


—104— 

72 

Even  in  Hellas  the  good  and  the  bad  oft  balance  each  other; 
Love  I  the  old  in  the  new,  hate  I  the  new  in  the  old. 

Pleasant  the   song  of  the  larks  as  thev  trill   in   the   old  Attic 

[meadows, 

Hateful  the  sound  of  the  gun,  modern  intruder  in  Greece. 
Off  fly  the  larks,  on  the  air  float  shreds  of  melodies  ancient, 

Clear  ancestral  refrains,  sung  every  day  in  this  field. 
Over  my  head  in  a  strife  with  the  breeze  is  whizzing  the  bullet, 

Gnu  and  powder  and  ball,  why  do  you  ravage  this  air? 
Your  sharp  music  I  know  the  chiefest  note  of  our  era, 

Still  I  shall  follow  the  larks  back  from  the  new  to  the  old. 


73 

Wings  I  attach  in  the  sun  t<>  my  words,  bright  butterfly  flappers, 
That  to  each  flower  they  flit  over  the  slant  of  the  mount; 

Often  not  more  do  they  bear  on  their  breath  than  a  pin-point  of 

[honey; 

Reader,  out  of  the  word  thou  the  sweet  drop  must  express. 


—105 


74 


Look!  on  this  side  Parthenon  lies,  on  that  side  Hymettus, 

If  thou  canst  hear  with  the  eye,  both  of  them  chime  to  one  note ; 

The  clear  temple  doth  echo  along  all  the  lines  of  the  mountain, 
And  the  mountain  of  stone  throbs  into  temples  unbuilt. 


75 


Helius  leans  now  before  me  upon  the  round  ridge  of  Hymettus, 
Just  for  a  moment  he  rests  ere  he  mount  up  in  the  skies. 

Why  doth  he  gaze  so  intently  across  to  yon  hillock  behind  me? 
There  the  Parthenon  lies  lit  to  a  blaze  in  his  glance. 

Golden  the  bridge  that  he  builds  in  the  air  from  summit  to  temple, 
Over  the  radiant  span  flit  all  the  forms  of  the  Gods. 

Under  this  bridge  of  his  beams  I  walk  in  the  shade  of  the  valley, 

Slowly  the  bright  structure  breaks,  now  it  doth  fall  round  my 

[head. 


-106- 

76 

Round  this  mountain  encircles  the  day,  the  season,  the  lifetime; 

Butterfly,  bee,  and  man  act  out  their  deed  on  its  breast. 
Of  its  sweetness  thou  mayest  be  able  to  suck  up  a  mouthful, 

If  thou  a  butterfly  art,  seeking  the  food  of  a  day. 
But  if  truly  a  bee  thou  art,  thou  wilt  gather  a  hiveful, 

Or  a  lifeful  thou  wilt,  if  thou  art  truly  a  man. 

77 

Satirist  Hornet  his  poison  don't  bear  in  his  tongue  nor  his  forehead, 
Nature  has  hinted  her  mind  by  the  mere  place  of  his  sting. 

78 

Hornets  are  reared  on  Hymettus,  I  saw  the  yellow-ringed  body, 
Poison  will  poison  distil  from  the  pure  heart  of  the  flower. 

In  my  wrath  I  struck  with  my  hat  at  the  daring  intruder; 
This  was  his  voice:  Have  a  care  lest  thou  a  hornet  be  too. 


-107- 


79 


Cast  an  ocean  of  brine  on  one  little  beam  of  Apollo, 

Still  it  will  glow  as  before,  dance  on  the  envious  surge;  A 

Such  is  merit,  O  friend.  Though  calumny  seek  to  darken  its  lustre  ^ 
It  will  not  be  put  out,  even  will  beam  on  the  foe. 


So 


Yonder  is  Athens,  it  seemeth  as  if  from  this  height  I  can  touch  it; 

Boldly  I  walk  down  the  hill  when  a  deep  gorge  cuts  me  off; 
Painfully  then  I  return  and  try  from  the  top  a  new  pathway, 

Till  I  by  brambles  am  stopped  ever  in  view  of  the  town. 
Now  I  go  back  and  spy  out  the  stores  of  Hymettus  before  me, 

Hearing  its  song  on  my  way,  soon  I  to  Athens  am  come. 


—108 


Si 


This  is  the  Pynx,  you  say,  whence  spoke  the  great  orator  Attic, 
Still  may  be  heard  from  these  stones  eloquent  echoes  of  old ; 

This  broad  platform  hewn  from  the  rock  is  a  voice  adamantine 
That  through  the  ages  resounds  warning  the  races  of  men. 

Gone  are  the  dwellings  and  temples  and  men  that  crowded  this 

[summit, 

But  the  voice  has  remained — hark!  it  is  speaking  to-day. 


Only  behold  this  stone  of  the  Pnyx,  altogether  the  greatest, 
Though  the  others  are  large,  larger  than  elsewhere,  you  think. 

Here  it  rests  in  the  wall,  it  was  raised  by  the  hand  of  a  Titan, 
To  outlast  all  the  strokes  in  the  great  fall  of  a  world. 

Let  us  call  it  Demosthenes,  rock  of  perdurable  grandeur, 
Orator  now  on  his  stand,  uttering  still  his  great  word. 


—1  DO 
SS 

Mid  these  ruins,  O  wanderer,  this  should  be  thy  first  lesson, 
To  be  able  to  hear  speech  without  lips,  without  words; 

Study  the  language  of  stones,  put  together  their  old  broken  story, 
Hear  their  destroyer  speak  too,  smiting  them  down  in  his  wrath. 

84 

Athens,  1  fear  thee;  thou  wert  the  favorite  haunt  of  the  virgin, 

Who  has  given  thee  name,  who  thy  chief  temple  indwelt;  . 
Stern  and  severe  is  thy  glance,  O  Pallas,  thou  maid  of  cool  reason, 

Knowledge  and  art  are  thy  gifts,  scorning  the  light  play  of 

[Love. 

Venus  is  hateful  to  thee,  and  all  the  lorn  lover's  caprices, 
This  I  must  not  forget,  as  I  thy  favor  implore. 

Still  on  this  mountain  you  often  can  hear  the  soft  trill  of  panspipe, 
Notes  of  it  rise  on  the  air  tuning  the  slope  to  its  strain, 

One  thev  are  with  the  sunshine  over  the  tranquilest  ridges, 
One  with  the  hum  of  the  bee,  one  with  the  beat  of  the  heart. 


—110- 


The  cicada,  long  famous  for  music,  I  saw  on  a  grass-blade, 
He  was  the  last  of  his  race  fallen  on  days  of  decline; 

The  green  freshness  of  Spring  had  changed  to  the  dullness  of 

[Autumn, 

Scarce  could  he  balance  his  wings,  and  he  no  longer  could  sing. 
But  his  shape  he  retained,  and  all  of  his  ancient  armor, 

A  tall  helmet  he  wore  mounted  by  double  high  crests; 
Long  was  the  fall  of  his  robe  which  covered  his  tapering  body, 

Draping  a  hint  of  the  gods;  graceful  were  bended  his  limbs. 
Here  in  view  of  the  city,  whose  eye  is  the  fame  of  Athens, 

Antique  shadows  he  casts,  dim  like  the  old  in  the  new. 
But,  O  Anacreon,  let  him  now  sing  as  he  sang  for  thy  measures, 

A  new  life  he  will  have,  echoing  notes  of  thy  Ivre. 


-111- 

86 

Ah,  discordant  the  sound  I  now  hear  in  a  dale  of  Hymettus! 

'Tis  the  Byzantine  twang  that  from  yon  chapel  doth  come. 
That  is  surely  the  sound  which  killed  old  Pan  in  this  mountain, 

And  it  would  any  God,  daily  to  hear  such  a  snarl. 

S7 

Many  a  sound  is  hateful — the  grating  of  hinges  in  dungeons, 

* 

And  the  clanking  of  chains,  also  the  human  shrill  screech; 

But  the  clanking,  the  grating,  the  screeching  is  sweetest  of  music 

To  the  screed  of  the  priest  mid  the  Greek  hills  on  a  morn. 

88 

Who  were  to-day  my  visitors  as  I  reposed  on  the  hill  of  Colonus? 

Butterflies,  birds  and  bees  came  with  their  message  of  joy. 
But  here  cometh  a  blind  old  man  who  is  led  by  a  maiden, 

What  does  he  say?  what  she?     Look  in  the  poet  of  old. 
Oedipus,  thou  art  the  man  who  always  appears  to  the  stranger, 

Herethou  didst  wander  in  life,  here  thou  wert  ta'en  to  the  Gods. 


-112- 

89 

Still  you  may  note  the  olive  and  grape,  the  plantain  and  cypress, 
Through  the  Athenian  vale,  roaming  the  river  along; 

Still  at  noon  you  may  see  old  Cephissus  rise  out  his  stream-bed, 
Secretly  water  the  trees  that  are  en  wreathing  his  banks; 

And  the  gracef ulest  nymphs  are  still  frisking  amid  yonder  thicket, 

Now  from  this  height  you   may  watch  all  of  their  frolicsome 

[sport. 

90 

Sophocles,  this  was   thy  hill  on  whose  summit   transpired  the 

[wonders 

Which  thou  didst  see  in  old  age,  but  with  a  vision  beyond. 
Round  the  hill  is  woven  a  garland  of  silvery  olives, 

Playing  to-day  in  the  breeze,  pretty  reminders  of  song. 
Peering  amid  the  grey  foliage  gleams  the  bare  top  of  Colonus, 

Like  a  poetical  brow,  aged,  though  fresh  in  its  joy. 

Gone  are  thy  temples  and  shrines,  O  hillock;  gone  are  thy  Gods 

[too, 

Still  thou  by  Nature  art  crowned  with   the  green   wreath  of 

[the  bard. 


-113— 

91 

What  did  you  see,  O  stranger,  to-day  as  you  sat  on  the  hill  of  the  , 

[Muses,   " 

Seeking  the  joyous  old  haunts  where  the  sweet  Sisters  once 

[dwelt? 

Goats,  I  saw  nothing  but  goats  that  were  browsing  the  thyme 

[of  the  hill-slopes, 

And  there  was  nothing  beside,  which  could  be  seen  with  the 

[eye. 
J(Vs  I  sat  and  watched  their  ungraceful  and  dirty  caprices, 

Soon  the  danger  I  felt  there  of  becoming  a  goat. 

92 

Long  I  sought  on  that  hill  for  a  trace  of  some  musical  shepherd, 
Tuning  his  pipe  in  the  sun  to  the  soft  trill  of  his  heart; 

Flocks  I  sought  for  calmly  reposing  in  patches  of  sunshine, 
Maidens  I  looked  for  in  vain,  sporting  with  lambs  on  the  rocks. 

All  the  hill-side  was  bare,  not  a  bush,  not  a  flower  or  thyme-stalk 
Whose  mild  fragrance  was  once  sweetly  distilled  into  verse. 

Pan  is  dead,  the  shepherd  and  shepherdess  thence  have  vanished, 

Sheep  are  now  left  to  themselves  till  they  be  shorn  for  their 

[fleece. 


-114— 


93 


From  the  Nine  Sisters  this  hill  is  named ;  they  dwelt  on  its  summit, 

And  from  the  height  they  attuned  all  the  horizon  around 
To  their  music;  unto  its  cadences  rose  up  the  temples, 

Choruses  fair  tripped  forth,  swaying  the  body  to  song; 
The  high  forms  of  the  Gods  and  Goddesses  stepped  out  of  marble, 

Speech  was  an  ecstasy  sweet,  flowing  to  measures  of  time; 
All  the  deeds  of  the  doers,  all  the  words  of  the  speakers 

Were  one  strain  of  the  Muse  sineinsr  in  Athens  of  old. 


94 


Up,  companion,  climb  to  the  top  of  the  hill  of  the  Muses, 
Thence  you  will  note  in  the  plain,  city  and  temple  and  sea; 

And  if  you  look  long  enough,  you  will  witness  the  birth  of  Athena 
Rising  up  with  her  town  cast  in  the  mold  of  her  brain. 


From  this  top  where  we  lie,  let  us  view  yon  theater's  ruin, 
Carefully  build  it  anew,  which  all  the  Muses  once  built, 

When  they  had  on  this  hill  their  temple  of  far-glancing  glory, 
And  inspired  the  voice  which  is  still  heard  in  those  walk. 

Piece  together  their  fragments,  list  to  the  notes  that  they  echo, 
You  will  hear  a  vast  rhythm  setting  to  music  the  world. 


96 


Athens,  many  thy  violet  hills,  and  all  of  them  sacred! 

Each  one,  however  small,  raises  its  head  to  the  skies 
High  as  Olympus;  take,  O  friend,  the  next  path  of  the  ascent; 

It  will  lead  to  the  top  where  is  the  home  of  a  God. 


-116— 


97 


O  the  shy  Muses,  I  wonder  if  they  to  my  love  give  requital ! 
Many  adorers  they  have,  few  are  invited  to  stay; 

Some  get  a  glance  or  a  smile,  and  some  get  a  word   from  their 

[heart-depths, 

But  the  most  are  dismissed — suitors  who  loiter  outside. 
Scarce  in  a  century  will  the  coy  Muse  fall  in  love  with  a  mortal, 

Breathing  her  soul  into  his,  making  one  passionate  life 
That  must  hreak  into  song  and  tune  all  the  world  to  its  keynote, 

When  we  see  Nature  herself  joining  her  voice  to  the  choir. 
Could  I  be  sure  I  were  loved  as  much  as  1  love  ye,  O  Sisters! 

Epigrams  never  would  cease  welling  up  into  the  day. 
Give  me  the  meed  of  my  love  back,  be  thou  a  Muse  or  maiden, 

Give  the  reciprocal  kiss,  lips  are  made  two  to  be  one. 


—117 


98 


In  the  bed  of  IHssus  is  lying  Calirrhoe  limpid, 

Heaving  her  watery  breast  still  to  the  God  of  the  stream ; 

Thither  I  wander  to  hear  from  the  Nymph  her  melodies  ancient, 
Fain  would  I  catch  her  sweet  note  sung  to  the  fablers  of  old. 

As  I  sat  on  a  stone  and  looked  at  the  gush  of  the  fountain, 
Came  with  Junonian  tread  maiden  of  figure  antique; 

White  was  the  ripple  of  folds  as  they  flowed  down  the  lines  of 

[her  body, 

Broken  to  waves  at  each  step,  just  as  she  bended  the  knee. 
She  was  bearing  an  amphora  ancient  of  gracefulest  model, 

Wherein  to  pour  the  fresh  drink  throbbed  from  the  heart  of 

[the  earth; 

With  the  cup  in  her  hand  she  was  dipping  it  out  of  the  fountain, 

Filling  the  jar  at  her  side  with  a  bright  sparkle  of  pearls; 
To  me  she  handed  a  draught  from  the  flood  of  Calirrhoe's  vintage, 

While  the  wealth  of  her  eves,  spendthrift,  she  poured  on  the 

[ground.* 


—118— 

Forward  she  leaned  her  lithe  body  that  turned  to  the  outline  of 

[Graces, 

High  she  swung  her  white  arm  bared  to  the  shoulder  of  dress, 
Cupful  she  whirled  after  cupful  into  the  mouth  of  the  vessel, 

While  her  melodious  breath  uttered  a  song  to  the  rhythm, 
As  it  softly  was  flowing  from  motion  of  hand  and  of  body, 

So  that  attuned  to  one  note  seemed  both  her  form  and  her  lips. 
O  the  beautiful  concord  when  song  is  a  bodily  movement, 

And  the  movement  a  song  hymned  from  the  heart  in  each  act, 
See  now  the  dead  earthen  amphora  wet  with  Calirrhoe's  finger! 

Forms  spring  out  of  its  clay  born  at  a  touch  of  her  hand; 
What  was  a  dull,  burnt  side  of  a  jar,  quite  lifeless  and  vacant, 

Now  with  action  is  filled,  action  of  figures  divine, 
Pallas  I  see  rise  up  at  her  city,  in  bearing  majestic, 

To  a  mortal  she  speaks,  son  of  Laertes  I  deem. 
Then  is  pictured  a  maid,  Nausicaa,  near  to  a  fountain, 

To  her  Ulysses  appears,  wanderer  mighty  of  old, 
And  he  prays  her  to  lead  him  the  way  to  the  woiidei'ful  city, 

Home  of  the  beautiful  forms,  work  too  itself  of  the  Gods. 


119- 


Look,  the  maiden  has  raised  to  her  head  that  amphora  ancient, 

There  it  stands  a  high  crown,  wreathed  with  clear  shapes  of 

[old  Time; 

She,  with  life  in  her  movement,  is  giving  her  life  to  its  figures, 

She  is  one  of  them  there,  though  she  be  here  too  to-day. 
See  the  old  and  the  new  now  vanishing  into  each  other, 

Interplaying  their  forms  down  from  Olympus  to  earth, 
And  from  the  earth  to  Olympus  again,  in  the  sport  of  their  beauty, 

Her  they  are  giving  their  grace,  them  she  is  giving  her  breath. 
Sketched  on  the  air  she  is  moving  both  into  and  out  of  that  picture, 

Dropped  from  the  outlines  of  art  into  the  movement  of  life. 
Who  can  distinguish  which  is  the  modern,  which  is  the  ancient? 

In  the  draught  of  thy  fount  softly  reflecting  a  world, 
These  are  the  forms  that  rise  up  in  a  chorus,  Calirrhoe  limpid, 

Thy  clear  waters  still  limn  all  the  old  shapes  of  the  bard. 


—120- 


99 


This  Athenian  landscape  is  ever  a  glorious  poem, 

Which  from  each  spot  you  can  read  all  the  long  day  in  your 

[walk. 

Radiant  verses  are  gleaming  like  falchions  aloft  on  the  summits, 

Mighty  heroical  lines  lighten  through  opaline  skies, 

• 

Heaving  hexameters  roll  from  the  rise  and  the  fall  of  the  sea 

[swell, 

Tender  love  epigrams  lisp  cadences  low  in  between. 
Plain  and  mountain  and  sea  are  a  garland  of  splendor  majestic, 

Circling  the  head  of  old  Time  laid  in  fair  Attica's  lap; 
Foliage,  herd,  and  ship  make  a  line  of  a  musical  measure 

Moving  with  harmonies  sweet  into  one  cast  of  the  eye. 
O  the  transfusion  of  sound!  the  transfiguration  of  vision! 

Every  object  of  sense  flashes  to  letters  of  light; 

Brightest  of  scripture  is   writ   on    the   earth  with  a  pencil  of 

[sunbeams, 

And  the  white  folds  of  the  clouds  drop  down  unrolling  a  scroll ; 
Many  a  line  of  old  Homer  is  cut  on  the  burnished  horizon, 
Words  of  the  Muse  built  of  stars  nightly  you  read  in  the  sky, 


Strains  of  high  singers  flow  still  from  the  liquid  Ionian  heavens, 
Out  of  each  fountain  are  heard  songs  set  with  fancies  of  old, 

Weeds  and  thorns  and  brambles  are  hung  with  emeralds  precious, 
Pebbles  begin  underfoot  suddenly  turning  to  pearls; 

Wisdom,  the  grave  old  sage,  is  diamonded  over  and  over 

As  he  walks  through  the  grove,  bearing  the  thought  of  the 

("world. 

Ancient  Pentilicus  yonder  is  speaking  a  word  to  the  sculptor, 

Rising  to  statue  from  stone,  filling  the  dome  of  the  sky; 
Happy  Hymettus  transfuses  to  song  all  the  dew  of  his  honey, 

As  he  sweeps  to  the  plain  from  the  clear  home  of  the  Gods. 
Yet  this  Nature  is  but  the  outermost  garb  of  the  poem, 

Which  the  body  doth  grace  hinting  the  glories  within, 
Nobly  suggesting  the  soul  in  the  refluent  folds  of  green  drapery, 

As  it  flowing  throngh  vales  rolls  to  the  tops  of  the  hills. 
Only  look  up;  you  will  see,  wherever  you  are,  the  fair  temple 

Which  in  the  center  is  placed,  raying  out  streams  from  its 

[height: 

Fountain  perennial,  welling  above  an  Athenian  hillock, 

Thence  overflowing  Greek  hills  into  the  stream  of  the  world; 
Wavps  it  is  sending  of  translucent  smiles  in  eternal  processions, 


—122- 

Thousands  of  years  it  has  filled  all  of  this  plain  with  its  joy 
Up  to  the  mountainous  rim  that  lies  on  the  earth  like  a  garland, 
And  embosoms  the  fane  in  a  long,  happy  caress. 

Cincture  of  pillars  by  distance  becomes  a   gay  zone  of  Greek 

[maidens, 

Festively  dressed  in  white  folds,  reaching  each  other  the  hand. 

See  the  fair  chorus  of    columns   now  dancing  around   on  the 

[summit, 

The  full  joy  of  the  feast  flows  to  the  ends  of  the  plain, 
Speaking  afar  to  the  wayfarer  lonely,  evangels  of  beauty 
Moving  to  measures  of  song  under  melodious  skies. 

Thither,  O  wanderer,  haste  from  the  vale,  from  the  mountain 

[most  distant, 

Haste  on  the  wings  of  the  ship  over  the  islanded  seas, 
Aught  is  reaching  for  thee  far  out  of  the  heart  of  the  temple, 

Fair  as  the  youth  of  the  world,  wise  as  the  old  age  of  Time, 
Drawing  thee  up  the  Acropolis  bound  in  fleet  fetters  of  sunbeams, 

Till  thou  art  set  on  its  top  from  the  wide  world's  other  side; 
Pass  now  into  the  temple,  thou  wilt  behold  the  high  Goddess, 

Where  she  sits  on  her  throne,  seen  by  her  worshiper  true; 
She  will  show  thee  her  beauty,  she  will  tell  thee  her  wisdom, 

She  is  the  landscape's  heart,  heart  of  the  poem  is  she. 


—123— 

100 

Parthenon,  mid  thy  deep  joy  thou  showest  a  still  deeper  sorrow, 
Fate  has  smitten  thee  too,  as  it  smote  heroes  of  old. 

Yes,  I  catch  thy  sweet  smile  which  gladdens  the  sea  and  the 

[valley, 

But  I  behold,  too,  the  wound  which  has  been  struck  in  thy  side. 
Thou  like  Oedipus,  Hercules,  thou  the  Greek  temple,  art  tragic, 

Ruin  heroic  thou  art,  beautiful  just  in  thy  fall. 
O  the  eternal  delight  that  sings  out  thy  fragments  of  marble! 

O  the  eternal  pain  from  the  pierced  heart  of  thy  stones! 

101 

Here,  at  thy  shrine,  O  Pan,  near  the  stream  of  little  Ilissus, 

Gratefully  to  thee  I  give  all  of  the  wanderer's  arms: 
Namely,  this  faithful  staff  which  stoutlv  supported  my  footsteps 

Where  are  the  mountain  haunts  trod  by  the  shepherd  alone; 
And  these  shoes  too  I  offer,  now  torn  by  the  rocks  of  the  hillside 

As  I  sought  thy  retreat  mid  the  deep  forest  and  glen. 
By  their  aid  and  by  thine,  O  Pan,  I  have  ended  my  journey, 

Take  now  the  signs  of  my  art,  grant  me,  I  pray  thee,  repose. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


2882     Snider  - 


E64     An  epigram- 
-matic  voyage* — 


PS 

2882 
E64 


UCLA-Young  Research  Library 

PS2882   .E64 


L  009  600  737  2 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILI1 


